


slam on the accelerator (it's a long way down)

by Corpium



Series: Pulled Taut [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Creepy relationship is creepy, Dark Stiles, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Relationships, Fanart, Guilt, Magic!Stiles, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Stiles-centric, Torture, diverges from canon mid season 3a, if you expected something else from a fic with these tags and setup idk what to tell you, mild blood kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 20
Words: 113,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corpium/pseuds/Corpium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After inadvertently awakening the Nemeton, Stiles takes on the alpha pack and carves a new place out for himself in Beacon Hills. </p><p>Peter helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Promote

**Author's Note:**

> all chess terms and definitions taken from Wikipedia or [here](https://home.comcast.net/~danheisman/Main_Chess/chess.htm)  
> Also, took a year-long break between chapters 3 and 4, so there's a noticeable difference in quality between chapters 1-3 and then the rest of this monster of a fic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> promote: to advance a pawn to the eighth rank, converting it to a queen, rook, bishop or knight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up -- This starts out with a brief Lydia/Stiles scene. If that's not your thing, don't let it throw you off. It's a plot point and an important part of Stiles's character development, not to mention his and Lydia's friendship, and again, it's brief. And hey, if Lydia/Stiles is your thing, enjoy. (And sorry if you're disappointed by the end of the scene. Like the tags say, this isn't a stydia fic.)

Lydia calls him while his dad's being rolled into the ambulance. "Is something wrong?" Stiles asks right away. It's the middle of the night and Lydia's still recovering from nearly being murdered, as is Stiles, for that matter, and now he's come to expect everything in his poor excuse of a life to be life or death.

"You're in danger," she says. Of course.

Stiles looks over to where Derek's shoving an unconscious Jennifer Blake into his car, barely out of sight of the ambulance. "Well, I was," he says, "but I think I'm good now. Look, Lydia." He sighs, frustrated and tired. His neck aches. He's stolen Isaac's scarf to hide the wounds from Peter's claws so the paramedics don't freak out and ask questions he can't answer. "They're taking my dad to the hospital now. I can't—"

"He'll be fine. You need to get to my house now."

Her voice brooks no room for argument, but Stiles tries anyway. "The Darach's unconscious already—"

"Just get over here, Stiles. I don't have time for this."

Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose. "Fine."

He steps over to the open ambulance doors and looks in on his father. "Hey, Dad, something's come up. I'm so,  _so_ sorry –I just—"

"It's fine," says his dad, understanding on his face. "You'll be careful?"

Stiles grins and gives a little shrug. "I'm always careful."

His dad frowns. He finally knows Stiles is lying.

 

o—o—o

 

Index finger to her lips, Lydia pulls him in before he can even knock on her front door.

When they're in her room, the door shut and locked, she tugs him forward without turning on the light and sits on the bed, patting the spot beside her. Stiles sits, cautious but not nearly as giddy as the last time he was here. "You're still a virgin, aren't you?" she asks.

Stiles blinks several times. It's three in the morning. His dad's in the E.R. because of a stab wound. Stiles was almost sacrificed. He also stabbed his English teacher through the heart, and she survived because she's a creepy, evil druid thing. And, icing on the cake, Stiles made out with Peter Hale, and now he owes the zombiewolf a favor because of it. All in one night. He sighs. "Yeah, why?"

A year ago Stiles would be trying to hide a hard-on. Now he just wants to go to the hospital and fall asleep at his father's bedside.

"I think that's why you're in danger." Lydia gets up and walks to her desk.

"Jesus," Stiles mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Look, she thinks I've had sex already. She's not gonna—"

"She'll know, Stiles. I can tell. I don't know how, if it's this banshee thing or what, but I can feel it," Lydia says, and she sounds deadly serious. She opens one of the drawers and takes something out, but with the lights off it's too dark to see what it is.

"Okay," says Stiles. He waves a hand in the air halfheartedly, his words almost slurring. "So what? Are you offering to have sex with me?" And really, he's so done with today that he's not even serious, but—

"Yes," says Lydia, stalking towards him.

Stiles's jaw drops. "What?"

Lydia steps up to him, her legs bumping up against his. She reaches out and starts walking her fingers up Stiles's chest. "What do you think it means, genius?" She pushes him down.

Stiles lets himself fall back against the comforter as she swings a leg over his and settles on top of him. "Are you sure?" he asks.

Her other hand, the one holding the thing from the desk, slides down his arm until she reaches his limp fingers. She presses a thin square of plastic into his palm. "Shouldn't I be asking you that question?"

"I—" Stiles says, and for once he's at a loss for words.

She leans down, her face just inches away from his. "Are you sure, Stiles?"

"Y-yeah," he breathes.

"That's what I thought," she says, and then she reaches down to unbutton his pants.

 

o—o—o

 

And that's how Stiles has sex with Lydia Martin. Not because they're destined to be together. Not because she finally realized how drop-dead sexy he is. Not even because she miraculously realized what high-quality boyfriend material he is.

But because she's saving his life.

This is what Stiles's life has come to. Making out with Peter Hale to trick the Darach into thinking he's just had sex and then actually having sex with Lydia Martin to make sure the Darach doesn't double-check the status of his would-be virginity.

Honestly, Stiles should send Ms. Blake a thank you card.

Except not really, because Stiles –Stiles is sort of a sap at heart. He's been planning out his relationship with Lydia since he was a kid. They were going to walk on the beach under the moonlight, have picnics in the park, do everything together. Instead….

It's nice. Stiles lets Lydia take control because, honestly, he has no idea what he's doing, and he's fucking exhausted. And Lydia's amazing; he loves her, really, always has and always will, even if he knows he'll never actually be with her, but, it's just –it's not—

"What is it?" Lydia asks, lying quietly beside him, slightly out of breath.

"I dunno," says Stiles distantly. He shrugs.

Lydia lifts her head. "Stiles."

Stiles sighs. "I made out with Peter Hale."

Silence. Stiles senses impending doom. Clearly he needs to work on his pillow talk.

"What." It's not even a question. It's a demand.

Stiles sighs. He should have kept his mouth shut.

 

o—o—o [  
](http://archiveofourown.org/works/908862/chapters/1760082#_msocom_1)

There's a small, frosted glass chessboard on the coffee table in Peter's apartment. Parts of the edges are chipped and blackened. A few of the pieces have been partially melted, while others, gleaming and new, have been replaced. The pieces have been lined up meticulously, and Stiles wonders how long it's been since a game was played.

He knows he's already playing one, and he wishes he could see the board.

It's been a week since they saved Blake from the alphas at the hospital and Blake saved Cora's life in return. Derek, Cora, Stiles, Allison, and Chris Argent have been recuperating at Peter's apartment after stopping the Alpha pack from killing everyone. It's… awkward, and Peter's presence makes the atmosphere ten times tenser, but it's not like they can use Derek's loft. It's currently hosting the Alpha pack, courtesy of Allison, her dad, Stiles, some carefully laid mountain ash, and a fire extinguisher full of wolfsbane gas.

Stiles presses a damp washcloth to Cora's head. He's beginning to notice a trend running through each of the Hales' lives. Peter gets set on fire. Derek gets stabbed through the chest. Cora gets her head bashed in. Stiles thinks they might be cursed.

"I wonder what they're talking about," Allison says from beside him, her brow furrowed. She's looking into the kitchen, partially divided from the living room, where Peter and Chris stand together, not-quite-arguing in hushed voices.

"Think your dad'll tell you?" Stiles asks.

Allison shrugs and looks away. "I hope so, but… we're still working on the communication issue."

Stiles nods in sympathy. "Yeah, same with me and mine."

"How is he?"

Stiles scratches the back of his head with his free hand. "He's still at the hospital. They say he's got a minor infection."

"Oh, I'm sorry. If there's anything I can-"

Stiles shrugs and cuts her off. "He'll be okay."

Allison offers him a tiny smile that doesn't reach her eyes, and they both sit in silence. She sighs and leans against him, a warm weight on his shoulder, and Stiles turns his head towards her, lips curling up. It's been a busy day, and it's nice to have a friend at the end of it.

Stiles starts to drift off, but then a shadow falls across his face. "Allison," Mr. Argent's voice says from somewhere above him.

Allison's head jerks up, bumping Stiles's chin. He winces away, and Allison mumbles an apology. "S'okay," he mumbles, blinking awake.

"Time to go home," says Mr. Argent.

Allison stretches, lifts Cora's legs off her lap and stands up, then carefully sets Cora's legs back on the couch. "You gonna leave, too, Stiles?"

Stiles looks down and lifts the washcloth off Cora's head. The wound's still bleeding sluggishly. "Once Cora's taken care of, then I'll leave," he says with a sigh.

"You sure?" asks Allison, and he looks up to see both Allison and her father glaring towards the kitchen doorway. Stiles follows their gaze and sees Peter, standing there with his arms crossed and looking unimpressed by their glares.

Stiles huffs. He feels so special. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

Allison looks back down and nods, concern still on her face. "Okay," she says reluctantly. Her father wraps an arm around her shoulder, and they walk out the front door.

The door closes with a soft click, and Stiles looks up at Peter, wondering what's supposed to happen next. "How's she doing?" asks Peter, nodding towards Cora.

"Still bleeding," Stiles answers.

Peter hums and disappears into the kitchen.

Stiles sighs. He's exhausted, but he's not stupid enough to let himself fall asleep in Peter's apartment –he'd probably wake up poisoned or with dicks drawn on his face. He idly rubs his strained eyes, only to freeze when his fingers leave a slick trail across his forehead. He yanks his hand away. It's the hand he's been using to hold the washcloth against Cora's wound, and it's covered with blood.

"Gross." He pouts and glares at the chessboard. Clearly this is Peter's fault. If he hadn't bitten Scott, Stiles totally wouldn't be in this mess in the first place.

Maybe it's actually Kate's fault, then. If she hadn't set the fire-

Then maybe it's actually Gerard's fault.

Or Gerard's father's fault.

Or Gerard's mother's fault. Stiles is an equal-opportunity blamer.

Stiles huffs and stretches forward, reaching his free hand out. He moves a shiny glass pawn two spaces forward.

Ha, take that, Peter.

Stiles leans back against the couch and stares up at the ceiling. There's seriously something wrong with him.

He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. The couch is warm against his back, its leather firm enough for him to sink into just enough to be comfortable. The fan beats rhythmically above his head. He wonders what the time is.

He sees a shadow pass over him behind closed eyelids. "You ready to take over from here?" he asks.

Stiles opens his eyes to see Peter looming over him from behind the couch, looking vaguely contemplative. As something in his gut clenches, Stiles opens his mouth to say something, but Peter raises a hand to Stiles's face, and his words get caught in his throat. Peter swipes his thumb over the skin of Stiles's forehead, quick and efficient. "Hey, hey, what-" Stiles starts, but then Peter's hand drifts down, his knuckles grazing Stiles's cheekbone and making the skin tingle.

Thumb streaked with Cora's blood, Peter raises his hand up for Stiles to see. "You had blood on your face," he explains.

Stiles is so done. "God, can't you act normal for once?"

"I could." Peter shrugs, walks around the couch, and hands a small wooden mortar and pestle to Stiles. "Spread that over the wound."

He sits across from Stiles, swinging his legs up onto the coffee table and crossing his ankles. Stiles looks down into the bowl and sees brown, gritty goop. "What is it?" Stiles asks.

"Does it matter?" Peter asks, sounding bored.

Stiles narrows his eyes. "I'd like to know if I'm about to poison Cora, thank you very much."

"Please, Stiles, she's my niece."

"That's what you said about your nurse, and look what happened to her."

"My nurse was more psychotic than I am."

"Oh, please—" Stiles starts to say, but Peter cuts him off with a hard look.

"I was out of my mind with pain and rage, and she set me loose. I wouldn't have gotten away with any of it without her."

Stiles looks at Peter, trying to tell whether Peter is telling the truth. Peter's still leaning back in the loveseat, body loose and open. He doesn't seem to be trying to convince Stiles of anything. Stiles looks away, thinking back to that night. "…When I got there, she did to block my escape," he says, skeptical.

Peter nods. "Mmhm," he says, long and slow like he's surprised Stiles hadn't figured it out sooner.

Stiles snorts. "That still doesn't mean  _this_ ," he nods towards the bowl of sludge, "is good for Cora."

"Cora's my niece. My family. I may not trust her, but that doesn't mean I want to see her hurt. Not unless I find out she's responsible for the fire." The last thing he says sounds far too casual.

Stiles narrows his eyes. "You don't trust her, either?" he asks.

Peter lifts his head up from the cushion and stares at Stiles intently. "Use the poultice, Stiles. Unless you wanther wound to get infected."

"Why can't you just tell me what this is?" Stiles flails, the sludge in the bowl rippling dangerously.

Peter sighs. "Because it's too complicated to explain. Slather it on, and I'll email you the recipe. Happy now?" He waves his hand out, gesturing lazily.

That makes Stiles pause. "You promise?"

Peter rolls his eyes. "I promise," he drawls.

And Stiles… he'll take it. He sets the washcloth on the table and dips two fingers into the brown goop. "Eurgh." It's unexpectedly warm. He makes a face and spreads it over the wound.

Across from him, Peter eyes the chessboard. If Stiles wasn't spending so much of his energy trying not to puke, he'd notice a rare, toothy smile playing across Peter's face. Luckily for Stiles, he isn't paying attention.

After a moment Stiles pauses and looks up. "Hey, why aren't you doing this?"

Peter eyes him from where he's leaning his head back on the couch. "Because it's messy, and why should I bother when I can make you do it instead?"

A burst of air whooshes out of Stiles's nose. "Wow, you are such an asshole."

Peter holds his hand out as if to say, _obviously._

God, Stiles is already imagining Peter's voice in his head. Clearly he's suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.

"Frankly, Stiles, if anyone's an asshole, it's Derek," Peter says, a hint of realization in his tone. "He's the reason Cora got hurt." His voice drops down to a disappointed murmur. "Allowing the humans to do the dirty work." He sighs, shaking his head slightly.

"Frankly, Peter," Stiles mimics, "the only reason Derek's pack hasn't been completely decimated is because the humans have been doing the dirty work. At least  _Derek_ ' _s_ wising up to the fact."

Peter lifts his head up, mouth quirking up. "No need to get snippy. I'm only expressing my concern."

"Oh, you're too kind." Sarcasm drips from Stiles's voice. "Peter Hale: the model citizen. Why didn't I realize it before?"

Peter raises an eyebrow, unfazed. "I think the wound's covered well enough."

Stiles looks at Cora's head wound –gross, by the way- and yeah, Peter's right. His hands flutter over Cora's face. He wants to lift her head off his lap so he can get off the couch, but his fingers are covered in goop. He looks up and stares at Peter expectantly.

Peter sighs and grudgingly gets off the couch. He walks towards Stiles and leans over, hands settling gently on Cora's cheek and the back of her head. He lifts her head off Stiles's lap and looks up at the teenager. "Well, are you getting up?"

Stiles is…. Stiles is confused. Peter's face hovers mere inches away from his, his breath tickling Stiles's clavicle. He's wearing that stupid, creamy white shirt with the open collar that shows off a tantalizing hint of his chest, and the corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement…. Peter has really good bone structure.

Peter's also smirking.

Stiles scowls and stands up, his knees knocking against Peter's legs. He has to slide past Peter and the arm of the couch to get away, and his body brushes up against Peter's in the process.

Once he's escaped he glances over his shoulder and sees that Peter's smirk has grown tenfold, bordering on a grin. Stiles's scowl grows in return.

It's official. There is a positive correlation between the strength and number of Peter's smirks and the strength and number of Stiles's scowls. Scientific fact.

Stupid undead werewolves.

Stiles realizes that he's just standing there like a dumbass, so he jerks around and stomps towards the kitchen. He uses his hands to turn on the faucet, getting goop all over the handles out of spite. He washes his hands under the heavy spray of water vigorously, as if he can clean himself of Peter's influence.

When Peter appears in the doorway, mouth already opening to say something undoubtedly snarky, Stiles cuts him off. "What do you have against Derek, anyway? First it's all, 'Oh, poor misguided nephew, getting his girlfriend killed. If only he had listened to me.' And now you're trying to tell me that Derek's an asshole for finallyworking together with the weak little humans –or, you know, the people who actually get shit done." Stiles pauses, eyes flicking down and to the side. Huh. He looks back up at Peter and asks warily, "If you undermine him enough, would you become an Alpha again?"

Peter bares his teeth in a facsimile of a smile, and Stiles nearly takes a step back. He feels like a shiny new toy or, or a piece of meat. Peter's eyes drop to Stiles's lips as he takes a step forward, and Stiles swallows. Peter's not going to try and make out with him again, is he? He only did that to trick Blake, right? He might be a creeper, but he's not actually –he wouldn't –not to  _Stiles_ , of all people, right?

Peter pauses, eyes flicking up to meet Stiles's, and his smile falls off his face. He leans against the wall-length cupboard and crosses his arms, eyes crinkling at the edges. Something in Stiles's chest releases, allowing him to suck in a breath. "If it were that easy, Stiles, I would have become an Alpha a longtime ago."

Stiles hums noncommittally and shuts off the water. Which. Ew. Gross. Why did he decide to get goop all over the handles again? He turns back on the water, cleans off the handles –pointedly ignoring Peter's amusement- rinses off his hands, and turns off the water again. He wipes his hands off on his pants, ignoring Peter's disapproval.

"I'm heading out," Stiles says, heading for the kitchen door.

Peter's hand snakes out and snags the crook of Stiles's elbow as he passes by. Stiles freezes, taken aback. "You could stay here instead," Peter says, voice lowered.

Stiles's eyes widen. "Uh…"

Peter snorts. His voice returning to his usual acidic drawl, he says, "On the couch, idiot. It's three in the morning. Wouldn't want you to fall asleep at the wheel."

Stiles tugs his arm out of Peter's grip, giving him a fully powered side eye. "I think I'm good, thanks."

Peter shrugs as Stiles shakes his head and walks out of the room. He reaches the front door and opens it, then pauses. He looks back into the living room and calls out, "Don't forget to email me that recipe."

"Go home, Stiles," Peter's voice says from somewhere deeper in the apartment, making Stiles roll his eyes.

On the couch, Cora groans and twitches. Stiles winces in sympathy. Oops.

He's about to turn around when the chessboard catches his attention. Someone's moved one of the pawns forward two spaces, and it definitely wasn't Cora.

Stiles bites back a grin. 

 


	2. Gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gambit: A sacrifice (usually of a pawn) used to gain an early advantage in space and/or time in the opening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darn. 3 more words and the word count would've been 6,666.

Lying on Scott's couch isn't very conducive to sleeping. It's old and a little lumpy, and sure, it's home to a lot of childhood memories, but still, it's uncomfortable.

So Stiles thinks. He thinks about his dad in the hospital and how badly he wants to murder Jennifer Blake for what she put him through, and who cares if she's teaming up with Scott and Derek's not-the-same-pack to take down the Alphas, anyway? Screw the greater good. She killed Heather, she killed Tara, she tried to kill Lydia, she stabbed his father, and she tried to kill him, and-

And they need her. They need all the help they can get. Because Deucalion's not gonna stop until he gets what he wants.

Until he gets what he wants….

 _"And the first question you have to ask yourself in order to decide the game is this: what is it that Jennifer Blake_ wants _?"_ Peter had said, and he may be a creepy zombiewolf with questionable motives, but he knows how people work.

So what is it that Deucalion _wants_?

He wants Derek in his pack. At least, that's what everyone _thought_ he wanted. But Scott told Stiles Deucalion was actually after him because of all that weird "True Alpha" crap.

So. Ostensibly Deucalion wants another Alpha or two in his pack. _But why?_ He came to Beacon Hills while he had Ennis, the twins, and Kali. Not including himself, that's _four_ pack members. An Alpha pack can't be _that_ different from a regular pack, right? So more than enough to make a pack. Deucalion didn't really _need_ any more members, and he still doesn't now, even with Ennis dead.

So Deucalion's just on a mad power rush.

But Stiles already knew that, didn't he?

Goddamnit, he knows he's on to something. It's right –there. He just needs to think on it a little more, and then-

It's five in the morning. _Five_. In the _morning._

He'll get a couple hours of sleep and deal with this tomorrow –later today. Whatever.

 

o—o—o

 

Stiles and Scott hurry into Deaton's office. "Deaton, we have a problem, and if you could skip the enigmatic statements, that would be awe-"

"It's rude to interrupt, Stiles," says Peter from right beside him.

Stiles jumps back, bumping into Scott, who huffs in fond annoyance. Peter's leaning against the wall next to the doorway, his arms crossed. "Jesus." Stiles tries to calm down his racing heart. "Hi there, Peter."

Peter looks bored. "Hi."

Scott shakes his head and bodily moves Stiles to the side and slightly behind him, as if to shield Stiles from Peter's evil machinations. "You're so cute when you get protective," Stiles tells his friend.

Scott ignores him and looks at Deaton, who's standing across from Peter behind the metal worktable. "The Alpha pack escaped Derek's loft," Scott explains. "We saw Ethan and Aiden at school."

"And they looked pissed," Stiles adds.

"That's actually what I'm talking to Peter about," Deaton says.

"I love it when no one tells us anything," Stiles mutters.

Peter gives him a look. "We just found out, too," he says blithely. Stiles glowers but doesn't respond.

Deaton turns to Peter again. "Where's the rest of your pack?"

"At the Argents'," Peter says like there's a bad taste in his mouth.

"They're safe for now, then. It's you and the boys we have to worry about," Deaton says, gesturing around the room. "I'd offer you asylum here, but you can't spend all your days hiding behind mountain ash."

"And they have your sister," Peter says pointedly.

Deaton's lips tighten into a thin line. "And they have my sister."

"Well, is there anything we can do?" Scott asks. "There's gotta be something."

"I'm not supposed to get my hands dirty, Scott. I can only guide you," Deaton says, shaking his head helplessly. "The only advice I can offer you is to stall Deucalion somehow." As Deaton talks, Stiles looks away, thinking. There's something that's been bugging him for a while, something he keeps meaning to bring up…. "Make him think you're considering joining his pack. Try-"

"Stiles," Peter says, watching him with interest. "What are you thinking?"

Stiles jerks into awareness, blinking. Scott and Deaton turn their attention to him. "I was just…" He wets his dry mouth, brow furrowed, and looks at Deaton. "You said I have some sort of 'spark', right? I thought it was the mountain ash that had the power, that I could just access it because I'm human, but… You're a druid. Is that… 'spark' or whatever -can I do stuff like you?"

Deaton sighs. "It's difficult to say. You're too young, and it's dangerous."

Stiles snorts. "I think I can handle a little more danger, Deaton. I deal with it on a daily basis."

"It's more complicated than that, Stiles. The human brain isn't fully developed until a person's mid-twenties. It's not safe for you to access your abilities until you've matured more."

Stiles rubs the bridge of his nose. "At this rate, Deaton, I'm not even going to make it to my twenties in the first place. Is there something you can teach me? Anything that might help?"

"I'm sorry," Deaton starts regretfully, but Stiles cuts him off.

"I could go to Jennifer Blake. I'm sure she'd have something to teach me," he says, dead serious.

"That would come with a price," Peter warns.

Stiles stares at him. "There are some prices I'm willing to pay." Peter stares back inscrutably, and Stiles wonders about that favor he still owes him. He certainly doesn't think Peter's forgotten about it.

"Stiles," Deaton starts to protest again, but something he sees in Stiles's face must change his mind. His jaw tightens visibly before he says, "I can teach you some basics."

 

o—o—o

 

When Stiles is done talking with Deaton, he finds Scott and Peter in the waiting room. "Still here?" he asks Peter, frowning.

"Well, it's not like I could join Derek and Cora at the Argents'. For some strange reason I'm not exactly welcome there."

Stiles opts not to say something snide in reply and hands Peter a list. "Do you have these ingredients?" After the werewolf scans it and nods, Stiles says, "Good. Scott, we're going to Peter's."

"What?" asks Scott. "Why?"

"Because I don't think you want Derek's pack living with Allison for much longer. Someone's bound to start a fight sooner or later."

"Why aren't we going to Derek's loft, then?"

Why does Scott always have to ask questions? Can't he just go along with Stiles straight off the bat for once? "Because the Alpha pack's probably booby-trapped it to hell, okay? And Peter's volunteered his apartment."  


"No, actually, I haven't-"

Stiles glares. "Yes, you have."

Peter sighs.

 

o—o—o

 

They're halfway to Peter's when Scott asks, "Do you think Derek's gonna give into the Alpha pack?"

Stiles looks at Scott like he's crazy. "Psh, no."

"Are you sure?" Scott's forehead is wrinkled in adorable confusion and concern.

Stiles shakes his head. "Did you see his face after Kali forced him to kill Boyd?"

"But what if he does it to save the rest of his pack?"

Stiles sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Honestly, now that we have Jennifer fucking Blake on our side, I don't think we're gonna have to worry about it. Yeah, I hate her; I hate her so much, but… she's definitely an asset." He turns to Scott again. "Why are you so worried all of the sudden, anyway?"

"I dunno… I was just thinking…. I dunno."

Well, that was eloquent. Stiles narrows his eyes. "Did Peter say something to you?"

Scott shrugs. "No… Yes… I dunno. It's just a feeling, I guess." He looks over at Stiles. "Think he's up to something?"

Stiles snorts. "Always. And ignore that feeling. It's just Peter trying to get in your head."

Stiles shakes his head. Jesus.

 

o—o—o

 

Stiles dips the brush into the vervaine-infused ink and carefully paints over the last symbol on the frame of Peter's front door. "There," he says, finishing the St. Brigid's cross with a little flourish. He stands up and turns around to face the window. He groans. He has to paint around the entire thing. "Why did you have to pick an apartment with such a big window?" he complains mostly to himself.

Peter responds anyway from his spot on the couch. "If you're tired you can wait until after Scott comes back with the food."

"No, it's fine," Stiles sighs, starting to walk towards the window. He sways unexpectedly, the world blurring for just a second. He pulls himself together and changes direction. "Actually, good idea." Using magic has taken more out of him than he expected.

After Stiles sets down the paintbrush and bowl of ink and plops down onto the loveseat, Peter watches him from the couch, eyes narrowed. The werewolf hums then snaps his laptop shut, sets it on the coffee table, and gets up to walk into the kitchen, leaving Stiles to watch him leave in mild confusion.

Stiles shrugs and turns his attention to the chessboard. It looks just the same as when he last saw it, all the pieces lined up neatly except for a pawn on each side. He'll never say it aloud, but he's spent a long time thinking about his next move. But should he really be playing in the first place? There's something slightly terrifying about the idea of playing chess with Peter.

Stiles hears water running in the kitchen.

It's just a game, isn't it? A harmless little thing.

The water stops running, and Stiles makes his decision. He leans forward and moves one of the polished glass knights on the other side of the board, then sits back and whips out his phone.

Just as he's typing in his pass code, Peter walks out of the kitchen, carrying a glass of water. He pads across the floor to Stiles and holds out the glass.

Stiles looks from the glass to Peter and back, suspicious. The water's probably drugged.

Peter sighs in annoyance. "You're a complete novice, Stiles. You need to drink something before you pass out."

"Yeah, and why do you care?"

Peter looks up at the ceiling for guidance, then back down to Stiles. "You're warding my home, idiot. I don't want you screwing it up out of exhaustion and getting everyone killed."

Stiles winces, and Peter tugs his phone away. "Hey-" Stiles protests as Peter sets it on the table, but then the werewolf's shoving the glass into his hand, fingers brushing against his palm before slipping away, leaving Stiles to clutch the glass before it falls to the floor. Peter sits across from him and watches him expectantly.

Stiles waits a few seconds, but Peter doesn't turn his gaze away. Creep. "Ugh, fine," says Stiles, and he takes an angry sip. He glares. "What do you know about magic, anyway?"

"I resurrected myself. What do you think?"

 _That_ catches Stiles's attention. He perks up, leaning forward slightly. "Can you –can you cast spells and stuff? And hey, why am I doing all the work? If you're so experienced, shouldn't you be the one-"

"I'm a werewolf, Stiles. I can't use magic myself. I can only use it indirectly," Peter says, sounding bored. He grabs his laptop from the table and snaps it open.

Stiles takes another sip of water, then narrows his eyes at Peter. "That poultice you made me use on Cora…. That wasn't just because you were feeling lazy, was it?"

Peter looks up at him and grins. He sets the laptop back on the table and leans back, folding his arms across his chest.

"Oh, my God!" Stiles flails, the water sloshing in the cup dangerously. "Could you be any more of an asshole, you manipulative little-"

Stiles absolutely does not squeak as there's a blur of movement and a hand grips his wrist tightly, holding his arm in place midair. Peter hovers over him, caging him in with his other arm beside Stiles's head, the sleeve of his shirt brushing Stiles's ear. As Peter's breath starts to tickle his neck, Stiles starts to pull his head back, only to freeze when the hand on his wrist tightens painfully. The werewolf stares at him intently, unnaturally blue eyes slightly hooded. Stiles can feel his heart rate pick up, and his eyes unconsciously flicker down to Peter's lips, which curl up slightly.

Peter's hand loosens around Stiles's wrist and slides up gently, the pads of his fingers just barely skimming Stiles's skin before settling around the glass. Peter looks Stiles up and down, long and slow. "Rude," he murmurs, and then he pulls away and sets the glass on the table before sitting back on the couch and reaching for his laptop.

Stiles inhales suddenly, trying and failing to conceal the tremors in his breath. He feels dizzy, his skin hot and oversensitive. Wrist tingling, he can still feel Peter trailing his fingers up his skin. He stares at Peter, eyes wide. What just happened?

Peter opens his laptop, eyes flicking up to meet Stiles's, a full blown smirk on his face.

"Shut up," Stiles snaps, and his voice absolutely does not jump up an octave. "Just –shut up."

Peter snorts and starts typing, ignoring Stiles in favor of his laptop. Stiles huffs and reaches for his phone. It dings just as he enters his passcode, and he pulls up a text. It's from Scott, and it reads, "Ethan was gonna talk to me at the sandwich place but danny distracted him. How are wards?"

Stiles texts back that he's working on them, then gets up with a sigh. After taking another sip of water, he picks up the paintbrush and bowl of ink and wanders over to the window. He pulls out the list of symbols Deaton gave him, glances at it, then shoves it into his pocket and gets to work.

He paints carefully for a couple minutes, letting his mind wander. Thoughts of Ethan lead back to Deucalion, and Stiles wonders again, biting his lower lip….

"Hey, Peter, you know what it's like to be a crazy serial killing Alpha," he says. Then he winces. That could've come out better.

Peter snorts from the couch. "Among other things," he says, sounding bored.

"So, if you were, you know," Stiles begins slowly, "a crazy Alpha on a mad power rush with a penchant for murdering his pack members, do you, uh, think you would stop at having a pack of Alphas, or would you wanna murder them, too?"

Stiles focuses carefully on the curves and points of the Celtic shield knot he's working on, tongue between his teeth. He hears the leather of the couch groan behind him, and then footsteps pad towards him. Peter leans against the wall just past the end of the window. "It's an interesting idea," he says. "Definitely a possibility. It depends on the Alpha, though. Which does he fear more: being powerless, or being alone?"

Stiles pauses his work and looks up at him. "Which one do you think it is?"

Peter looks away, eyes unfocused. "…Both are terrifying prospects." He looks back at Stiles. "Don't you think?"

Stiles swallows and looks away. This conversation is veering towards something he doesn't want to think about. Time to reel it in. He looks back at Peter, shrugging. "I dunno, but do you think Deucalion's pack might think it's an, uh, interesting idea, too?"

Peter's eyes crinkle slightly in thought before he shakes his head. "Not unless you can find some sort of proof. Otherwise, you'll probably end up dead before you can even finish your suggestion."

Peter pushes himself off the wall and wanders over to the bookshelves lining the wall opposite the kitchen, leaving Stiles to his thoughts. Stiles dips the brush into the ink and carefully finishes off the shield knot with a thin stroke.

"It's a curious thing, magic," Peter muses, quietly enough that Stiles has to strain to hear. "You'll never know what you're capable of until you push yourself. Of course, with Deaton holding you back, I suppose you'll never find out, will you?"

Just about to dip the brush into the ink, Stiles pauses and turns around. Peter's standing in front of the bookshelves, running a finger down one of the book's spines. His eyes flicker up to Stiles's, an expression on his face that Stiles can't quite decipher.

Stiles sets down the ink and brush and wanders over cautiously. He _knows_ he's being baited, but the temptation, the possibilities of what Peter seems to be offering…. Fuck, he's totally joining the Dark Side, isn't he?

Stiles steps up to Peter, careful to leave a couple feet in between their bodies. "Deaton said it's dangerous. That I won't be ready until my mid-twenties," he says cautiously.

Peter nods in acknowledgment. "And you said you might not even make it to your twenties." He looks up at the books and selects a small one, its leather binding thin and worn, the title faded so far as to be unrecognizable. He offers it to Stiles. "I happen to agree with you."

Stiles's eager fingers twitch at his sides, but he doesn't take it. "Why are you offering this to me?"

Peter scrutinizes him for a moment, then tips his head forward. "You need all the help you can get. Why are you asking?"

Stiles pulls back. "Because you think you're gonna get something out of this, and I wanna know what it is."

Peter smiles thinly, his eyes remaining cold. He steps forward, crowding into Stiles's space, and his free hand catches Stiles's shoulder. Stiles takes a step back and bumps into the bookcase. He swallows, his throat tightening.

"You know that favor you owe me, Stiles?" He murmurs, taking another step forward, leaving just inches between them. His hand starts trailing down Stiles's arm.

Stiles wishes he had decided to wear long sleeves today. "Y-yeah?"

Peter's fingers wrap around Stiles's hand and raise it up gently. "When I ask you for it," he says, opening up Stiles's hand. "I expect you to be prepared." He places the book in Stiles's palm, keeping Stiles's hand trapped between his own hand and the book. "Because I like you, Stiles, and I wouldn't want to see you get hurt."

Peter steps away, and Stiles feels like he can breathe again, his heart racing. His eyes are locked with Peter's, and he can't bring himself to look away.

"Think about it," Peter tells him, and then he's turning around and walking over to the couch, sitting down and swinging his legs onto the coffee table like nothing happened.

Stiles's jaw tightens as his hands close around the book. His eyes narrow in on the chessboard. Peter moved the frosted glass pawn in front of his king a space forward when he wasn't looking. Stiles purses his lips and opens his mouth to speak-

"Scott's here," Peter says, reaching for his laptop.

There's a knock at the door.

"We're talking about this later," Stiles hisses, but Peter just makes a shooing gesture towards the door.

"It's me, guys," Scott calls.

Stiles sighs and walks towards the door, slipping the book into his back pocket. When he opens it, Scott's holding a large paper sack and a cupholder and looking at him in concern. "Something going on?"

"Nah," says Stiles, shrugging. "Nothin' to worry about. Just Peter being Peter."

Scott snorts and shakes his head. "Great. Well, anyway, I got the usual…."

Stiles tunes him out and follows him into the kitchen. For the rest of the night he feels like the book's burning a hole into his back pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know what this fic is doing to me!? I was just gonna make up crap about chess and totally BS it. I'm a mediocre player at best. I know the pieces' names and how they move, and when I play w/my family and friends I think three or four steps ahead. But that's it.
> 
> Now you've got me reading several different chess glossaries and taking notes on terms and going on youtube and watching frickin' videos on different strategies, and Jesus, wth!?
> 
> So yeah, the point of that little rant was originally just to let you know that Stiles used a white e4 opening, and Peter's using the Sicilian Defense strategy, if you actually care.


	3. Board Vision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> board vision: the ability to quickly and accurately recognize where all the pieces are and assess what they are doing in the present chess position.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'VE ALWAYS BEEN THE ALPHAAAAAA!!!!!"
> 
> Peter, honey, no. Just no.

"Are you sure you don't wanna arrest her?" Stiles whines. He's sitting in a cheap plastic chair besides his father's hospital bed, an English book in his lap. 

His dad sighs. "You're the one who convinced me not to say anything, kid. And while I'm not happy about it, your reasoning made sense. We need her." 

Stiles looks up, holding back a grin. "We?" 

His dad looks at him fondly. "You and me. Just like old times." 

Stiles stares at his father in disbelief. "Why—?" He leans closer and squints. "Who are you and what have you done with my father?" 

Something in his father's face seems to crumple, leaving him stoic and serious. "Stiles..." 

Stiles pulls back a little. "Why aren't you telling me you're gonna lock me in my room and never let me out?" 

"Because you're my son," his father says without hesitation. "And your mother's." 

Stiles's lips start to twitch upward, but then his brow furrows, his teeth grind together, and he looks down at the ground. "I can't—" he chokes, pressing his eyes shut and swallowing. Then, "You can't be involved, Dad. It's not safe." 

His father's expression hardens. "And how do you think I feel, Stiles? She was going to kill you. Right in front of me, and all I could do was sit and watch. And that's not even the worst of it, is it? How many times have you lied to me now? How often have you nearly died without me having a clue?" Stiles looks down, but his dad doesn't stop, his voice firm and ruthlessly cutting. "Ignorance isn't bliss, kid, and it isn't safe, either. Keeping secrets destroyed the trust I had in you, and it got me stabbed in the chest and nearly made into a witness to my own son's murder." 

Stiles looks up, eyes wet and blinking, his throat tight. "Dad…" 

His dad's face softens. "...I'm your father and the Sheriff." He breathes in deeply. "It's my job to keep you safe, not the other way around." 

"I know," says Stiles. "It's just, I thought –I didn't…" He shakes his head, looking away. 

"You were afraid you'd lose me. And I—" his dad looks away, swallowing, before looking back at him. "God, son, you're right. I wanna ground you and keep you locked in your room surrounded by mountain ash and whatever else it takes to keep you safe for the rest of your life, but somehow I don't think that would work very well." 

Stiles smiles slightly, and shakes his head. 

The sheriff grins. "That's what I thought. And that's why we're gonna start talking about these things, okay?" 

Stiles nods, saying softly. "Okay." 

"Good," says his dad, satisfied. "Now who beat you up last year?" 

Stiles groans. "Oh, come on, D—" 

His dad gives him a Look. 

"Gerard Argent," Stiles says automatically. 

His dad stares at him, expressionless. "What part of 'tell me everything' don't you understand, Stiles?" 

Stiles winces and rubs the back of his neck. "I thought it wasn't that important?" 

His dad sighs deeply and rubs the bridge of his nose. "What else aren't you telling me?" 

Stiles looks away. He legitimately has to think about this. He's pretty sure he's told his dad everything else, actually —well, he kinda skipped over the times Scott tried to kill him. And he might have glossed over the time Peter kidnapped him and forced him to locate Derek. And he skimmed over the swimming pool incident. And the reason why Jennifer wanted to sacrifice him. And the Peter and Lydia-related reasons Jennifer couldn't sacrifice him. And Stiles mentioned the magic —he painted protection runes on a piece of tape circling his dad's bed, after all (the nurses think he's crazy), but he forgot to mention the whole 'dangerous' thing and the book Peter gave him. But other than that, "Not much," he says, shrugging. 

His dad clearly doesn't believe him. "Really." 

Stiles decides to throw him a bone. "Well, Scott did try to kill me once or twice in the beginning, but really, he's got it under control now. S'all good." 

"Uh huh." His dad still doesn't believe him. "Anything else?" 

Stiles shakes his head in the negative. 

His dad's face tells him how unconvincing he is, but his dad sighs and seems to let it go for now. "So these 'hunters', the Argents, are they the only ones, or are there more?" 

Stiles blinks. "Um. Huh. I think there's more, but you know, I don't really know. That's a good question." 

His dad frowns. "Okay, well... then what about the Hales? Do they have any other werewolf connections?" 

Stiles shakes his head again. "I dunno." 

"Know anything about Deaton?" 

"Perpetual mystery," Stiles says. 

His dad stares, unimpressed. "Stiles, what did I teach you about strategy?" 

Stiles makes a face, resisting the urge to facepalm. "...Always assess your resources before taking action?" 

"And have you been doing that?" 

Stiles's shoulders slump. "Not really. It's –there's been so much, and I haven't –I can't—" 

His dad's face softens, eyes widening and brow furrowing in concern. "You're not alone anymore, Stiles. We're in this together now, okay? And we're gonna fix this, I promise." 

Stiles looks up hopefully, then looks back down, beaten. "You can't promise that," he says softly. 

"Stiles," his father says firmly, and Stiles can't stop himself from looking up. "Yes, I can," his father promises, and Stiles…. Stiles believes him. He nods slightly, and a ghost of a smile crosses his dad's face. "Now, you have Allison's number, right?" Stiles nods. "And Derek Hale's?" Stiles hesitates, then nods. "Good, call them. We're having a meeting." 

"We're—" Stiles's brow furrows. "What?"  

 

o—o—o 

 

Melissa pokes her head into the room. "Guys, you need to keep it down. You're really not all supposed to be here." 

A chorus of mumbled apologies fills the tiny, overcrowded hospital room. Meliss scans the room, making eye contact with each person to make sure they understand, eyes lingering warningly on Peter and Chris. She looks at the sheriff last. "Fill me in when you're done." 

The sheriff nods, and satisfied, Melissa leaves. 

"Now what were you saying about not wanting Scott here?" The sheriff asks Chris. 

"I don't trust him," Chris says. Stiles's eyes crinkle. Well, that was blunt. Peter snorts, making Stiles glance at him. He's watching Chris in amusement, too. His eyes flick over to meet Stiles's, and he smirks. Stiles rolls his eyes and looks back at Chris, who's saying, "How do we know he's not working with my father again?" 

Scott splutters, but everyone ignores him. 

"Gerard?" asks the sheriff, eyes slightly narrowed. Chris nods. The sheriff's eyes flick over to Stiles, and he looks at the ground quickly. 

"He wouldn't do that," Allison says. 

"He already did," Chris says pointedly. 

"And I was really working against him the whole time," Scott says. 

"Wait, Gerard's alive?" Derek asks, tensing. 

"Who's Gerard?" asks Lydia. 

As everyone bickers and complains and attempts to explain the situation, Stiles throws his head back and groans. The Argents, the Hales, Scott, Stiles, Isaac, and Lydia are all crammed into the sheriff's hospital room, and even with his dad playing mediator, Stiles wants to shoot himself. "Jesus," he mumbles. 

"I know, right?" Isaac says softly from beside him. 

"Scott can't be working with Gerard," Allison tells the group. She looks at Scott. "You're the one who sent me those articles and stuff, right?" 

Scott looks at her, confused. "What?" 

Allison frowns. "Someone left me documents and articles on everything he's been responsible for. I thought it was you." 

Scott starts shaking his head, and Stiles frowns. He files the information away for later, then says, "Look, this is fun and all, but we really don't have time for this. Scott's not working with Gerard. I scolded him and guilt-tripped him this summer so hard he nearly cried. So he's not working with the guy again, right, Scott?" Stiles looks at his best friend expectantly. 

Scott pulls out the guilty puppy dog eyes and shakes his head. "I'm not working with him." 

"I still don't trust h—" Chris starts to say, but the sheriff cuts him off. 

"I can understand that, Chris, but right now we have to work together. Can you do that?" Stiles's father asks calmly. When Chris nods, the sheriff nods back. "Good. Now, resources, let's see what we have." 

 

o—o—o

  

It turns out the Argents have already contacted a couple hunters who may or may not show up in  a week or two depending on how their current cases go, while the other hunters they know are guaranteed to take care of the Alpha problem, but will probably blow up the town in the process. They're not contacting those hunters. 

As for the Hales, Derek has been too proud to contact his old friends and contacts from New York (Derek has  _friends_!?), but the sheriff gave him the Disappointed Face, and he's promised to contact them. As for Peter, he hasn't contacted any of his old friends and contacts since before his coma; although, apparently a couple came to visit him several years ago, so he's said he'll contact them. ( _Peter has fRiEnDs!??_ ) 

Lydia, as it turns out, may not know anything about her supernatural heritage but  _is_ more than willing to make as many Molotov cocktails and any other scientific solutions they might need. She also has a lot of money she's willing to throw around, so that's nice, too. 

Stiles's dad promises to see what his databases show about the members of the Alpha pack once he's out of the hospital, and he makes everyone promise not to go wandering alone by themselves. Then he demands copies of Gerard and Peter's bestiaries. 

"No," Peter says regretfully. "I'm sorry, but some of the information in m—" 

"Now that I know about you, Peter," the sheriff says evenly, "I'm sure I can find a way to get you put away for life. You are, after all, a serial killer. I'll find something," he promises, leveling a look at Peter. 

Peter eyes him for a moment, then looks, if anything, slightly impressed. "I'll get a usb drive to you by tomorrow." 

The sheriff nods. "All right then, I think we're set for now." He yawns deeply, blinking. 

"Okay, guys," says Stiles. "Time to head out." 

Everyone shuffles out, except for Scott, who looks at Stiles. "You wanna come back with me'n'Isaac or do you wanna wait for my mom?" 

"You can go on ahead. I'll meet you guys at your house later." 

"And by that," says his dad, "he means he'll wait for your mom." He looks at Stiles pointedly. "I was serious about sticking together. I'm glad you're staying with the McCalls while I'm here, but I don't want you wandering around alone." 

"Fine," Stiles huffs, then looks at Scott. "I'll see you later, dude." 

Scott smiles and gives him a one-armed bro hug. "Yeah, see ya later. We're having pizza tonight, by the way." He looks at Stiles's dad. "See ya, Mr. Stilinski. Hope you feel better soon." 

"Bye, Scott," says his dad with a little wave. 

When Scott's gone, the sheriff turns to Stiles. "That Peter Hale guy, I don't like him." 

Stiles lets out a short laugh. "No one does." 

"What's he up to?" 

Stiles shrugs. "I've been asking myself that for a year now." 

"Well, I know you have to work with him, son, but I want you to stay away from him as much as possible. He's got an agenda, and I don't want you involved," his father warns. 

Ha. Haha. Hahahahaha. "Got it," says Stiles with a nod. He sits down besides his dad's bedside and picks up his math book. "Now, I'm gonna try to get some actual work done." 

His dad closes his eyes, and Stiles spends several minutes working on his homework. After a moment he hears a soft little snore and glances up. His dad's mouth is half open, his eyes shut, the lines on his face softened. Stiles looks down, a smile on his face. This is nice. 

 

o—o—o

  

Scott thinks he's snuck into the hospital to spend the night with his dad. 

He hasn't. 

Instead, Stiles is home. Alone. Barely over a week after pissing off a bunch of Alphas by trapping them with mountain ash and gassing them with wolfsbane poison. 

God, he's stupid as fuck.  

Maybe this is worth it. 

He closes his eyes. 

 He's sitting on the floor with his legs crossed and his palms resting on his knees.

There's a shallow bowl balanced in his lap. He opens his eyes and stares down into it.  

His breath causes the murky water to ripple, coating the sides of the bowl with a slick film.  

A potted plant sits on the floor in front of him. It's a small fern, the edges of its thin leaves crinkled and brown from forgetfulness and neglect. 

Moonlight breaks through the clouds. The window blinds scatter it into beams that illuminate the other half of his room, leaving him in shadow.  

The clouds move further, and a ray of moonlight alights on the plant, barely missing Stiles.  

Stiles carefully dips the tips of his fingers into the water, then plunges his hands into the soil around the plant, and  _believes_. 

The air  _whooshes_ out of his lungs, and Stiles feels like he's being pulled in six directions all at once, like he's being pulled taut and dissected, and his muscles start to tremble uncontrollably. He scrunches his eyes shut and groans, and god, he's coming apart at the seams; he's falling apart, but he still believes; he can't fucking stop believing because belief is all he's got now, everything else is fading away until nothing's left but his dying lungs and his need for this to fucking work already and god this isn't going to end, fuck— 

Stiles chest and stomach rise and expand as he sucks in a breath and yanks his hands out of the dirt. His chin drops to his chest, his chest heaving, and he braces his hands against the floor, forearms shaking. 

He doesn't know how long he stays like that. His muscles feel like rubber, and his lungs are burning for air. His vision comes in and out of focus, and goose bumps cover his skin. 

He closes his eyes and focuses on breathing deeply. After some time, the goose bumps disappear and his heart stops racing. Another moment passes, and he dares to look away from the rug. 

The plant sits in front of him innocently, its leaves lush and bright green. Stiles thinks it looks... peppier. He thinks he'll name it Riley. That's a peppy sort of name. Riley the Peppy Plant. 

Stiles lets himself fall back onto the rug, his legs still awkwardly crossed and the shallow bowl precariously placed in his lap. 

His bones feel like they're vibrating. 

He stares at the ceiling and laughs.

 

o—o—o

  

He's woken up by someone manhandling him up and forward, one of his arms slung over someone's broad shoulders. His limbs feel like noodles, and his eyelids feel like they're weighted down with lead. He groans as he's dragged forward, and his head flops over onto the person's shoulder. There's a light, male huff of amusement, and the man's breath tickles Stiles's hair. 

Maybe Stiles should open his eyes. 

Before he can really process that idea he's unceremoniously being dropped on his ass against a hard, smooth floor. He flails and starts blinking his bleary eyes open. His vision not quite coming into focus yet, all he sees is bright white light. His butt's totally gonna bruise. 

A spray of ice cold water hits his clothed back and he leaps up. "What the fuck!?" His sock-covered feet start to slip on the slick floor of the tub, and the only thing that stops him from falling on his ass again and cracking his head open against the shower wall is Peter's hand on his chest. Stiles looks up at him, wild-eyed and enraged, and Peter stands there and fucking  _blinks_ like he's perfectly innocent. 

Stiles snaps around and shuts off the shower, then turns back to Peter. "What the fuck?" he repeats. 

He tries to shove Peter out of the way and step out of the tub only to be stopped by the hand still on his chest. Stiles looks down at it then back to Peter, affronted. "Dude, what the hell is your pr—" 

"You're missing school right now. Scott was worried, so Derek, Cora, and Chris Argent are bound to show up here any minute," Peter says. 

Stiles's forehead scrunches up, and he starts rubbing his shivering, wet arms. His clothes are sopping wet and freezing, and he just wants to change into something  _dry_ and curl up under his warm comforter. "So why the fuck did you throw me in a freezing cold shower!?" When Peter opens his mouth, Stiles adds, "And don't even try saying it was because you were bored. I'm never buying that bullshit excuse ever again." 

Peter closes his mouth and holds his hands up in submission, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You smell like death." He looks up, quirking his eyebrows. "And somehow I don't think Derek or Chris would approve of... last night's activities." 

Stiles looks down, cheeks flushing despite how cold he is. Peter's talking about the plant, he knows, but god, it certainly sounded like he was talking about something else to Stiles's ears. 

Peter looks back at Stiles. "I'll clean up the mess in your room, but you'll have to be the one to clean yourself up, unfortunately." 

Stiles stares, blinking. His mind is going places it has no right to go. 

Stupid Peter. 

Peter, who's staring at him like he's a piece of meat and leaning in closer like he's about to share a secret. "Unless, of course, you need help. Wouldn't want you to slip and hit your head, would we?" 

Stiles blinks, suddenly realizing that Peter's hand hasn't moved away from his chest yet. The werewolf's palm and fingers are blissfully warm against his shivering skin. 

Peter pulls his hand away, and Stiles nearly whimpers at the loss. He's so  _cold_. 

"Do you need help, Stiles?" Peter asks with false concern. 

A violent shiver wracks Stiles's body. "Goddfuck-k-k-k-king d-damnit, Peter, g-go away," Stiles grinds out through chattering teeth. 

Peter takes a step back and shrugs. "Your loss." And then he's backing out of the room. 

As soon as the door shuts Stiles's mind is assaulted with images of water pounding as wet skin slides against skin, and goddamnit, he can't even take a hot shower now. 

Fucking Peter. 

 

o—o—o

  

An annoyed Derek drops Stiles off at school just in time for English class with Ms. Blake. Awesome. 

Class is tense now, what with her poisoning the werewolves at Motel Hell, putting the sheriff in the hospital, and trying to sacrifice Stiles and all, but other than that, it's surprisingly normal. Stiles attempts to use his death-glare, but alas, she seems to be immune. 

At the end of class, as Stiles is about to walk through the doorway, she finally looks at him. "Stiles, could you stay after for a minute?" 

Stiles hesitates, and Scott comes up to stand at his shoulder. Once their classmates leave, Jennifer looks at Stiles and says knowingly, "I don't think you want Scott to hear what I have to say." 

Oh, dear. 

"...Scott—" Stiles starts to say, but Scott cuts him off. 

"I'm not leaving you alone with her," Scott says. Stiles can't see his face, but he'll bet ten bucks that Scott's glaring at her over Stiles's shoulder, his eyes flashing yellow. 

Stiles sighs and turns to his friend. "Scott, she doesn't need me anymore. It's not like—" 

Scott head jerks to the side, his forehead crinkling. 

"What is it?" Stiles asks. 

"I think... it's—" 

Chanting comes from somewhere deeper inside the school, steadily growing louder. "Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!" 

"Isaac," says Scott, and then he takes off running. 

Jennifer holds Stiles back from following, and he tenses, ready to fight for his life. "We're discussing this later," she promises, and then she takes off, too. 

Stiles sighs deeply then follows at a trot. 

The chanting gets louder, and Stiles breaks into a sprint. 

A hand snaps out from the side, claws digging into his bicep, and yanks him into an empty classroom. A bone-shattering blow knocks him to the ground with a thump, and Stiles hears a *crack*. 

He curls in on himself and glances up through teary eyes. 

One of the twins hovers over him, fangs out and red eyes blazing. "Oh, come on, dude—" Stiles starts to say breathlessly, only to be interrupted by a boot to the stomach. 

Somewhere else in the building, Lydia screams. 


	4. Gamechanger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey
> 
> Sooo it's been more than a year (eheh), but this story's not dead! Yay! I've been writing it since early July, actually, and the wordcount's just reached 64k right now at about 3/4 of the way through with a clear ending in sight. I'm really sorry for the wait, but at the same time, I don't think I was ready to write this last year. I wouldn't have done it justice.
> 
> But anyway, I received some lovely feedback from [edragoon](http://edragoon.tumblr.com/) on this chapter. She's been a delight :)
> 
> I'd also like to thank everyone who's commented on this in the last year plus. Seriously, your comments are the reason I picked this story up again, and honestly, it's been the biggest story I've ever undertaken and gotten so far on. This has been a milestone for me, so the depth of my appreciation for your encouragement knows no bounds. You're awesome.

He's dying, he thinks. He's had this thought before, but this time is different. It's not like having a panic attack, when everything seems to be closing in on him and his thoughts repeat themselves, shouting, raving, the weight of impending doom crushing his lungs. It's not even like being beaten by Gerard. At least then he had Scott's safety to focus on; he had something to keep him going. Besides, Gerard's message was different from the twin's. 

Gerard wanted to send a walking, talking message to Scott. The twin, Aiden or Ethan, Stiles has no idea, is following through on a threat, and now Stiles lies motionless on the slippery tile floor, choking on his own hot blood. It's not like how he imagined it would be. He thought numbness would follow the pain, that he'd have a brief moment of respite before death, but apparently he's been misled. Even as darkness closes in, his vision narrowing to a thin prick of light, pain lances through his gut, his ribs, his joints. It swells and fades rhythmically with the throb of his slowing pulse. 

Death sucks, he thinks. 

With his blurred eyesight, Stiles watches resentfully as designer sneakers and jean-covered calves and knees sink into sight -the twin, crouching down in front of him. Stiles wants to tell him to fuck off, that the last thing he wants to see as he dies is the dude's crotch, but, unfortunately, Stiles isn't exactly capable of speech at the moment. 

"You know," starts the twin, and nope, Stiles is not listening to whatever gloating victory speech he has to give. Nope nope nope. Lalalalala. 

Stiles closes his eyes and imagines all the sex he'll have once he goes to Heaven. Ha, Heaven. As if he'll end up there. 

A hand buries itself in his hair and yanks his head off the ground, the awkward angle making his neck twinge. Because clearly he's not in enough pain already. 

"Look at me when I'm-" the twin begins to say, and there's something about the way he speaks, the arrogance, the pure entitlement in his voice, as if he thinks Stiles is some mere inconvenience, that makes Stiles realize just how fucking _pissed_ he is that he's going out like this. 

Damn it all to Hell, if Stiles is dying, he's taking the fucking brat with him. 

He doesn't know how it happens. One moment he's curling his right hand against his chest, the next he's grabbing the twin's hand in his hair by the wrist, and some force smoldering inside him begins to twist and struggle, writhing deep in the center of his gut and beating against a steely barrier. His skin feels electrified, like it's about to peel off any moment. 

"What are you-" the twin says as he begins to snatch his hand away, and Stiles's hand clamps around his wrist like a vice, so unnaturally strong that even the Alpha werewolf can't break it.  The barrier inside Stiles shatters, and he takes. 

Fire roars to life within Stiles, crackling through his veins, and instead of being pulled taut and dissected, like when he livened up the plant, he feels alive and raw, whole. It's like electricity flows through his veins, and the more of it he takes, the faster his heart beats, the more his vision clears, the more he begins to feel alive again, and the pain begins to fade away. It's a paradox, the way he feels. It's like he's floating, but at the same time he's hyper aware of everything around him, from the hard tile beneath his side to the way the twin goes limp, his eyelids fluttering shut. 

Stiles is not a hero. He's accepted that. He knows what's happening, but it feels so good, and the werewolf here? He's responsible for Boyd's death. Just now he was trying to kill Stiles. So now he's the one who's going to die, because he deserves it. 

The flames inside Stiles tug harder as the twin begins to slump. Stiles doesn't particularly want a werewolf collapsing on top of him, so he stands up, pulling the werewolf's wrist with him, and the world travels up with him in sharp detail. He looks around and sees tiny rivulets of blood flowing through the thin cracks between the tiles, sees the individual granules making up the powdery chalk lines on the board, the dust motes glittering in the air like stars, the crinkling skin around Jennifer's eyes as she watches him from the doorway— 

Stiles drops the twin's wrist, and the werewolf collapses to the floor. The fire within him dies, and the world shifts. It seems darker, muted. "Oh—" Stiles croaks. He coughs, and the taste of blood floods his senses. He rubs a hand across his mouth, and it comes off sticky and red. Bile rises in the back of his throat. 

"You're just full of surprises, aren't you?" Jennifer asks, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind her. 

The twin groans, and Stiles looks down to see him curling in on himself, spreading Stiles's blood across the floor. Jennifer starts walking towards him, and Stiles jerks his gaze up to watch her, his chest tightening and his breath growing shallow again. He takes a step back away from Jennifer, but she keeps coming towards him. He takes another step back. He feels light-headed and jittery, like there's too much of him for his own skin to contain. 

Tremors wrack the twin's body in his peripheral vision, but he doesn't look down. Jennifer watches him carefully, stopping a few feet away. "It's okay, Stiles," she says, reaching out for him, and Stiles bumps into a chair and stumbles as he tries to get away from her. "I'm on your side now," she says earnestly, holding her delicate hand between them like an offering. 

Stiles watches her, pressing back against a chair, and he feels cornered, trapped, like he's about to vibrate out of his skin. His heart rate pounds in his ears, rabbit-fast. 

"I can help you," she says, doe-eyed and sympathetic. 

Stiles remembers how it felt to slide the knife into her chest, to twist it and feel it grate against tendons and bones. He imagines what it would have felt like to kill her in a different way, to feel the life drain out of her and into him, to feel the sheer elation of it. 

He looks down to see the werewolf shudder violently one last time, then go completely still. 

"Oh, god," Stiles chokes out and breaks into motion. He darts past Jennifer, skirting past the body on the floor, then yanks open the door and bolts into the hallway. 

Feet away from the classroom, he near runs into Lydia, jerking to a stop in front of her. 

"Stiles-" Lydia says urgently, like she's been looking for him, but his appearance makes her stop, makes her gasp and step towards him, reaching out. "What happened?" 

"I-" he starts, then hesitates, watching as her hand nears the bruising skin of his bicep. He can feel _something_ under his skin, crackling and twisting. It's too much. Right before her fingers graze his arm, he cringes away. "I have to go." 

He runs. 

 

o-o-o

  

He's lying on his stomach on the forest floor. The cloying mist makes him shiver, and the dirt and dry leaves tickle his nose as he breathes in deeply, face turned to the side. He feels tired and cold. His body aches. He doesn't know where he is or how he got here. 

He opens his eyes. 

He can barely make out the faint lines of trees around him through the darkness –evening perhaps. Or morning. The thick fog makes it difficult to see further than a few feet in front of him, the way it tinges the weak light a greenish gray. 

A twig snaps, the sound disproportionately loud within the silence, and Stiles tenses, the fingers of his right hand curling around something hard and grainy –wood, he thinks. He tries to keep his breath quiet and shallow, to stay still. He listens. 

A light press of crumpling leaves somewhere in the distance behind him. A short huff of air just out of sight in front of him. The whispery brush of hair against flesh off to the side. 

The wood beneath his palm feels warm compared to his chilled skin. 

Silence again. 

He waits. For minutes, hours, he doesn't know. Long enough for the greenish hue of the fog to turn sapphire in the moonlight. 

At last he allows himself to relax, fingers cramping as they unclench around the wood. He breathes out in relief and slowly begins to work his muscles, rolling his tight shoulders and stretching his legs out. His knee cracks like an old man's, almost making him laugh. Hysteria lingers on the edges of his consciousness, and he shoves it away with all he can muster. He can freak out when he's safe.   

A figure looms out of the fog, and before he can scramble away, it throws itself on top of him, pressing him to the ground, squashing his left arm between the ground and his stomach, and slapping a hand over his mouth. 

Adrenaline rushes through him as he bucks, but then a voice whispers in his ear, "Don't let go of the tree," and damnit all to Hell. Fucking Peter. 

"Mph—" 

"The tree, Stiles," Peter orders, urgent and rushed, and Stiles realizes he'd let go of the tree root –because apparently that's what it is –earlier, and grabs onto it again. As soon as he does, he feels Peter relax against him, which is fucking weird, and seriously, _what the fuck is going on?_  

Muzzy, Stiles wants to ask questions, but Peter's hand is still covering his mouth, his weight on Stiles's back pressing Stiles into the dirt, so Stiles thinks he should probably wait to see what Peter does before he runs his mouth off. It seems stupid to trust the werewolf, but Stiles is banking on the deal they made that Peter's got his best interests at heart. Well, relative best interests. Best interests meaning keeping Stiles alive. Because whatever was out here earlier, he's beginning to think it was something other than Peter, something even more dangerous. 

Velociraptors, he thinks. The whole stalking in the forest thing –definitely velociraptors. From Jurassic Park. Except those weren't actually velociraptors even though they were called velociraptors. They were technically more like deinonychus or Utah raptors or whatever. But that's Hollywood for you. Factchecking ruins dramatic flare, so best to skip it all together. 

God, he's thirsty. He wonders when he last had anything to drink. For that matter, when did he last eat? Why is he here? In the middle of the forest? He remembers the plant, Derek dropping him off at school, and class with Jennifer Blake, and then— 

The twin. 

Stiles tenses, feeling his breath stutter at the memory. _Breathe_ , he tells himself, but it doesn't help. It's night, isn't it? That means he didn't take his Adderall. Probably. He can't remember. Why can't he remember? 

 _Focus_ , he tells himself, not that it'll do much good. What happened after the twin? 

He ran after –after he murdered Aiden or Ethan. God, he murdered someone, and he's not even sure who. What the fuck is wrong with him? 

No. He'll think about that later. After, after he ran, he— 

Where did he run? Here? Or somewhere else first. 

He remembers leaving the school, vaguely, then running, running _somewhere_ on autopilot, not because he wanted to but because he was supposed to, and he ran past his house, past Scott's, and the whole time he had _so_ much energy which makes no sense except it does because he _took it_ , and then he hit the treeline, but he doesn't remember why, doesn't remember what he thought he was doing. He just _did_. And then— 

He remembers nothing. One moment he's running into the forest, the next he's waking up _here_ , wherever the fuck here is. 

First he's murdering someone, then he's suffering from amnesia. This is it. He's finally going crazy. 

"Stiles," Peter murmurs, and Stiles physically jerks into awareness, a quick press against Peter's chest and god, even his crotch, which, awkward, because Peter's literally on top of him, and Stiles finds himself hyperaware of their proximity. Peter's weight starts to make it difficult for him to breathe, but he's like a furnace against his back, and Stiles is freezing, so if he enjoys it a little, well, no one else needs to know. 

Thankfully he's pretty sure he's too busy freaking out about being a murderer to have to worry about popping a boner. 

"You can let go of the tree now," Peter says again, peeling himself away from Stiles's back, and _cold_. He's so fucking cold. "They're gone," the werewolf says, getting to his feet. 

Stiles tries to move for a second, then immediately regrets it. He thinks he'll stay in his current position, thank you very much, no matter how awkward his left arm feels stuck between his body and the ground. Moving is hard. Also painful. 

"Stiles," says Peter, half amused, half put-upon. 

Stiles flings up his right hand and shakes his hand vaguely in Peter's direction. With a derisive snort, Peter grasps his hand and tugs him up. The world blurs around him as he stands on shaky feet, his body going hot and cold as he reorients himself. He blinks the spots out of his eyes, rolls his shoulders, and yawns. He's a sleepy murderer, he thinks to himself sardonically. 

He looks around, but the fog's still too dense to see through. He makes eye contact with Peter, who's watching him patiently. "What was out there?" he asks, voice hoarse and quieter than he intends. 

Peter narrows his eyes and answers simply, "The Alphas." He eyes something on the ground a foot away from Stiles, his eyes narrowing in partially concealed concern, and that has Stiles worried. Real concern doesn't belong on Peter's face. 

He follows Peter's gaze to the ground and spots the thin, brittle tree root he'd been holding onto for what must have been hours. Glistening with dew, it winds and widens towards its source before disappearing into the fog. Drawn, Stiles steps towards it. Crumpled leaves crunch lightly beneath his feet as he follows the root to its trunk. 

Only it's not the great, monstrous tree he expects when he finds it. It's a massive stump, cracks spiderwebbing across its flat surface. A tiny, wispy stalk grows out of one of the cracks near the center, a single leaf sprouting from the tip. Stiles's skin feels light, airy somehow, unbalanced. 

His knees buckle, and he falls to his knees on the stump heavily, tremors shooting up his thighs. It doesn't hurt. 

He breathes unevenly, air thick in his lungs, and he reaches out, his spiraling thoughts dull and distant. His fingers brush under the fragile leaf, lifting it slightly, and he stills, his thoughts fading away, the air ghosting out of his lungs in a quiet sigh. 

He feels like he belongs here. 

It's only a leaf, but it's more than that. He can feel it like electricity dancing across his fingertips, hot and strong and furious, almost playful. Life. 

He snatches his hand back and staggers to his feet, realization hitting him hard in the gut. That life came from him. He wraps his hands around himself and slams his mouth shut as he backs away. He spins around and almost walks right into Peter, looming in front of him with a calculating, far too focused look on his face. 

Stiles swallows and takes a deep breath. He jabs his index finger in Peter's face. "What the hell are you playing at?" When Peter raises his eyebrows, Stiles says, "You knew this would happen, didn't you? When you gave me that stupid book!" 

"Now, let's not be hasty, Stiles. You know what they say about assum—"

"What the hell is going on, Peter!?" Stiles shouts, waving his hands in Peter's face. "I just brought a fucking tree back to life. Why the fuck did you make me bring a tree back to life!?" 

Peter glares. " _I_ didn't make you do it. And that's not just any tree." 

Before Stiles can open his mouth to yell at him for being more cryptic than Deaton, Peter holds up his index finger in front of Stiles's mouth for silence. Stiles contemplates biting it, but he changes his mind when Peter's eyes flash blue at him. As Stiles seethes, Peter says, "This, Stiles, is the Nemeton, and even I didn't see it coming." He looks at it over Stiles's shoulder and steps back to start pacing around it, voice lowering. "I didn't know where it was until I followed you here." 

Stiles watches him. "In your little story you never mentioned it being cut down." 

Peter glances up at him. "Because it wasn't." He looks up at where the tree would have been. "You should have seen it, Stiles. It was… truly something." His eyes flick down to the stump. "Still is, apparently." 

Stiles's eyes widen. "Are you saying—" He bites down on his lower lip, scrunching up his face before shaking his head and starting over, "Are you saying that the tree made me do it? Are there sentient trees now? Is it like a fucking ent?" 

On the other side of the stump, Peter meets his eyes, smile spreading slowly. It doesn't reach his eyes. "No one made you do anything, Stiles." He gestures at the stalk growing in the center. "This is all on you." 

Stiles is starting to understand why Scott felt so frustrated and terrified when he first became a werewolf. "Then why am I here?" He buries his hands into his hair and ruffles it. "Seriously, if this is all on me, then how the fuck did I end up here? Because this—" he gestures around "—not my decision!" 

Stiles steps back as Peter comes full circle and steps into his space. "You felt it, didn't you?" 

Stiles swallows, shaking his head slightly. He can admit it to himself, but that doesn't mean he has to admit it to Peter. 

Peter, who for once isn't smirking. "Calling to you." 

Stiles huffs out a laugh, bordering on hysterical. "Like a fucking beacon." He runs a hand through his hair. "Christ." Because, go figure, they're in Beacon Hills. Whoever named their town had a sick sense of humor. 

"You nearly killed one of the Alphas, Stiles. You drained him." Peter prowls around him, but Stiles refuses to turn to face him, staring down at the Nemeton instead. "All that power had to go somewhere." Peter's breath ghosts against his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. 

Stiles pivots on his heel to face him. He files away the weird transferring power like a rechargeable battery thing for later and clarifies, "'Nearly' killed?" 

Peter stops circling and nods in confirmation. " _Very_ nearly." 

Stiles's gaze falls to the ground as relief floods over him, quickly followed by overwhelming disappointment, and isn't that the kicker? Because yay, he's not a murderer, fantastic, but that means the Alpha pack's still intact, and they need to go. Like, a whole month ago. Before they make Derek really kill one of his own and definitely before Deucalion gets his dirty, obnoxiously British paws on Scott. And honestly, and Stiles has a policy of being honest with himself, if he sees that begin to happen–at all—who gives a fuck about his precious morals? They fuck with Scott, and they're dead. Stiles can rot in Hell for all he cares; he's got power to work with now, and if he has to use it to take those fuckers down, he'll do it in a heartbeat. 

The realization hits him like a punch to the gut. He's not the weak little human anymore. He's got power now. Albeit, power he might only be able to access when he's dying, power that might be attached to a nearly dead _tree_ , but he's got it, and he'll learn to work with it. That's what he does. 

In front of him, Peter's lips part ever so slightly, but he holds back whatever he intends to say when Stiles meets his eyes. 

Stiles notes the distance between them, notes the way Peter's pushed himself into Stiles's space like he belongs there, watching Stiles with thinly veiled want, and Stiles holds back a grin. He needs Peter and his knowledge, for now at least, and Peter's placed himself perfectly. Purposefully, too, Stiles knows, but he can work with that. 

Stiles drums his fingers against his leg. "What else do you know about the Nemeton?" 

Peter's lips curl up into a close-mouthed smirk. "I know it allowed me to find you first." 

"Yeah, and how do you know? You and the sentient tree stump—" Stiles knocks his foot against the base of the Nemeton irreverently "—discuss it over afternoon tea, or what?" 

Peter looks unamused. "Not quite." 

Stiles raises an eyebrow and shakes his head, gesturing for Peter to go on. 

Sighing, Peter says, "Scott, Derek, Isaac, even Cora –they've been searching for you a lot longer than I have. The Alpha pack, too. Yet here I am, after only a cursory check around your school." 

"I'm touched by your concern," Stiles says dryly. 

"You don't want my concern, Stiles." 

Stiles has a feeling he already has it, fortunately or unfortunately. "So you're saying," he says carefully, "that the reason the Alphas prowling around earlier didn't find me–then us—was because the tree was hiding me?" 

Peter nods. "Yes, Stiles. It's not that difficult a concept to grasp." 

Stiles scowls and crosses his arms. "So why'd you tackle me then? When I was already on the ground? Safe." 

Peter leers, eyeing him up and down like he wants to eat Stiles alive.

"Seriously?" Honestly, Stiles is gonna have to do something about Peter's skeeviness sooner or later. He's starting to get used to it, and isn't that a terrifying thought. His fingers flex at his sides. 

Peter tilts his head in a half-nod of acquiescence. "Well, not exactly. When you let go of the tree, your scent started to leak out again—" and oh, God, Stiles does not want to think about Peter smelling his scent right now, "—so I helped… cover it up. And if the Nemeton's protection extended to me then, well, what kind of person would I be to say no to that?" 

Stiles snorts a little and steps back to pace back and forth, then pauses, looking back at Peter. "Are they still out there?" He looks around, not that the thick fog has anything to reveal. He looks back at Peter. "Please tell me you know the way back to civilization. Because I honestly have no idea where we are. We are near civilization, right? I didn't, like, use super speed to get here, did I?" He's lost in the wilderness with the zombiewolf and a vampire tree stump. His life is so terrible it makes _Survivor_ sound like a relaxing vacation. 

"Stiles," Peter says, coaxing. "You're going to be fine." He reaches for Stiles, but Stiles shrugs him off with an agitated grumble. Peter frowns in reproach and grabs him by the nape of his neck, fingernails digging into Stiles's muscles as he drags him away from the Nemeton like Stiles is some sort of disobedient puppy –or maybe something Peter killed and plans to save for later. Possibly both. "Let's go," Peter says flatly. "We can talk on the way." 

"Goddamn—" Stiles tries to shove away, but Peter tightens his grip on Stiles's neck. "Ow, ow, ow—" Peter doesn't even look at him "—I'm going, I'm going, Christ." Peter's grip relaxes, his hand hot and firm on Stiles's chilled skin, and Stiles stops trying to extricate himself out of Peter's hold, grumbling, "Stupid werewolves." 

Peter glances at him and squeezes his neck lightly, just enough to make a point. "Good boy," he murmurs.

"For the love of—" Stiles twists and ducks out of Peter's hold for real this time, ignoring Peter's snicker as Stiles tries and fails to shove him away. Stiles growls in frustration and puts a good foot of space between them.

"Careful, Stiles," Peter honest to God _purrs_ –who the fuck actually does that, "Wouldn't want you to get lost in the mist." 

"I fucking hate you." He keeps trailing slightly by Peter's side anyway. 

Peter smiles, glancing at Stiles. "If you honestly hated me, I'd be dead." Peter cocks his head to the side. "Again." 

Stiles trips over a tree root. "Wait, what? No. Dude, it's not like I go around murdering everyone I have a grudge against." He turns a pointed look on Peter. 

Peter steps in front of him and stops, forcing Stiles to jerk to a halt mid-step. "Oh, so it was Jackson's idea to set me on fire?" 

Stiles's mouth falls open. "Uh, well…" 

Peter's eyes narrow. He hums, sly and considering, and drags a clawed finger down Stiles's face. "That wasn't very considerate, was it? Setting a burn victim on fire." 

Stiles grinds his teeth together and catches Peter's wrist when his claws settle on the underside of his chin. "Seemed rather poetic, if you ask me," Stiles says, voice low. 

Peter's claws dig into his vulnerable skin, and Stiles tightens his grip on Peter's wrist in warning, knuckles whitening. Peter huffs a little, his mouth curling up while his eyes remain calculating, his breath warm on Stiles's lips, smelling –minty? "True," he murmurs, eyes dropping to Stiles's lips. 

Stiles can feel his pulse picking up. "To be fair," he says hurriedly, "You did try to hunt me down in my own high school. Seriously, talk about a horrible way to go. I—" 

"Mmm, that was fun, wasn't it?" Peter drums his claws against Stiles's throat, tiny little pinpricks in Stiles's skin that tickle more than anything else. 

"Fun!?" Stiles yelps, trying and failing to throw Peter's hand away from his neck. "No. _No_. Try 'fucking traumatizing' instead. What the—" 

Peter twists his wrist out of Stiles's fingers and catches the offending hand before Stiles can snatch it away. "I bet you'd have fun now. Being chased." 

Stiles's breath catches, eyes caught by Peter's. He shoves down the impulse to swallow even as his mouth waters. The blurry silhouettes of trees and sparse underbrush loom around them in his peripheral vision, the fog lifting ever so slightly, and Stiles realizes not for the first time how utterly alone they are. 

Peter's thumb circles over his pulse point, and Stiles's mouth falls open. He can feel the heat radiating off Peter's body. 

Peter releases Stiles's wrist and spins around. "So, the Nemeton," he says to the air in front of himself as he saunters away. "You had questions." 

Stiles's mouth falls open further, blood hot in his veins, skin prickling, and suddenly, all he can think is, _fucking tease._ His thoughts twist on themselves as he realizes, _God_ , he just thought of Peter as a tease. He wants to shove the guy up against a tree and make out with him and rut against him and bite bruises into his skin. That's –well, that's something, all right. Stiles is insane, it's official. 

Peter glances over his shoulder as the fog begins to blur the lines of his body. Stiles snaps his mouth shut and trots to catch up to him. 

Nemeton. Right. No sexy times with the older, murderous, manipulative, recently resurrected werewolf whose one saving grace is his hotness… and possibly his mad Machiavellian planning skills, not to mention –no. _No_. Stiles is not thinking about Peter's attractive qualities. Because he's evil. Instead, Nemeton questions. Okay. Oh, God, what if Peter can smell his arousal? _Nope. Absolutely not._ "Who do you think cut it down?" he asks, voice strained. 

Peter flashes him a knowing grin before considering the question. "I'm not sure. It could have been anyone, even someone from my family. Who knows what Talia did with it after she stole my memories...." 

Stiles briefly feels tempted to ask about Talia's memory-stealing, because that does not seem like very good relationship-building, but Peter's clenched jaw makes him decide he'd rather avoid that topic like one avoids drivers who can't stay in their own lane. "What's so special about it then? What's it do? Or, I guess, what did it do? Before it was cut down." 

"It brought balance, offered safety. It wasn't only a physical sanctuary that we used to hide under. It was a magical one. But that was when it was whole. This is something new. Darker." 

"Woah, wait, did your family, like, worship it or something?" 

"No," Peter says derisively. 

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief, not knowing exactly why. 

"Druids did." 

Stiles eyebrows fly up. Peter smirks. 

Stiles shakes his head. "Okay." He draws the line at tree-worshipping. He's not doing it. Nope. "So what does it... want?" 

He's asking what a tree stump wants. His life, man. 

"I should think that would be obvious," Peter says like the pompous bastard he is. "It wants what we all want. To live." 

Which, okay, yeah, that's pretty obvious. Amazing insight, Peter. "I'm not killing people for it," Stiles feels the need to point out. 

"Not even the Alpha pack?" Peter asks oh so innocently. 

Not for a tree, he's not. "Nope." 

"Probably a good thing. The last thing we need is another Darach on our hands." 

"I think you're overestimating me," Stiles says uneasily. 

Peter's eyes him like he would a juicy steak. Or, given that this is Peter, the perfect v-neck. Possibly both. "Your pulse says otherwise." 

They spend the rest of the walk in silence, Stiles's fingers twitching at his sides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be publishing weekly (so Wednesdays) until this is complete. I'm starting to publish it online now because I leave for college tomorrow, and I'm using it to soothe my poor, fragile nerves :P


	5. Unpinning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> unpinning: the act of breaking a pin. This allows the piece that was formerly pinned to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [GORGEOUS FANART BY HYPNALE](http://hypnale.tumblr.com/post/105878273247/and-i-get-what-i-want-this-is-my-steter) for 2014 steter secret santa. Seriously check it out. It's fucking beautiful. (She said I could embed it, and I did for a while, but I think it's better for you to check it out on her tumblr and give her some notes so she knows how great it is.)
> 
> Again, much thanks to edragoon for feedback!
> 
> Warning, if talk of vomit squicks you out, you might want to skim the first few paragraphs after the first break.

Stiles dreams of ice in his throat, glass beneath his scrabbling fingertips, and white light in his straining eyes. He tries to hold his breath, but the water floods in regardless, the riptide beating against him and through him and dragging him away. He claws at the smooth glass as the water sweeps him along and the muscles of his chest convulse and spasm, and then the glass disappears, and the water drags him down, down, the light fading away until all he can see is midnight tinted smoke. 

A final shiver wracks his body, and his lungs stutter to a halt, a dull, cramping pain in his torso that slowly fades away. He knows his body's dead even as the water churns around him, sluggish and heavy, the pull of it slowing and steadying, heavier, until it's no longer water cradling his body and inundating his system, but mud, slick and weighty, gluttonous and gritty with decay. It swallows him down, surging around his body like quicksand, sinking into all his pores and cracks. It creeps into his nose, his ears, his mouth, and he would choke, but he can't. Paralyzed by death, he can just watch and wait as it happens. 

Hands from below grab his own, claws scratching the skin of his wrists and slipping between his fingers, crunching muck-hidden bones together between their joined palms. The hands yank him down through the mud into open air. 

"That wasn't right. What are you doing?" Scott asks from where he sits atop a boulder in the middle of a wild prairie. 

His head on the ground by Scott's feet, Stiles shrugs, t-shirt covered shoulders rubbing lightly against the dirt. He looks up to meet Scott's eyes, but Scott's looking up at the sun. Stiles fiddles with the knife he used to stab Jennifer, thumbing at the tip. "I dunno," he says. He presses down too hard, and the knife bites into the soft pad of his thumb. He hisses in pain and tosses the knife away. He sticks his thumb in his mouth and sucks the blood away. 

"Stiles," Scott scolds, frowning down at him. "You'll get hurt if you keep playing around." 

He hears a scream in the distance –Lydia. She's awfully loud. 

Why is she so loud? 

"I just did," Stiles grumbles around his thumb. He pulls it out of his mouth and sits up to show Scott. "Look at this." A tiny drop of blood wells up out of the cut, glinting in the sunlight. 

Scott doesn't look, just stares at something in the distance. "I miss playing Call of Duty," he says. 

Stiles suppresses a wince as Lydia's scream gets louder. He follows Scott's gaze and sees golden blond hair flash in the distant tree line. "Erica?" he asks. 

He turns to Scott for a response, but Scott's gone. He looks back at the tree line and steps into it. 

The trees rise above him, impossibly tall, and Lydia's scream grows louder, making Stiles wince. Something golden blond flickers in the corner of his eye, and Stiles whirls around. "Erica?" 

Another flicker. He spins and dashes in its direction. "Erica?" He hears her laugh behind him, followed by Boyd's low chuckle. "Boyd?" 

He runs and runs, chasing golden hair and laughter and long-suffering sighs. He dodges low-hanging branches, slips in the mud of dead stream beds, stumbles over the cut-off dips and swells of the forest floor. 

He almost smacks into a little girl in a red sundress, holding a small box turtle in her hands. "I'm looking for his hidey hole. It has cheese," she says. Stiles blinks at her. A dark, human-shaped blur darts behind a tree in the corner of his eyes. He dodges around the girl and chases after it. 

Lydia's scream crescendos until he can't ignore it anymore. He stops and clasps his hands over his ears, but it doesn't do any good. The sound builds until he thinks his eardrums will burst, pain washing through his skull— 

A thin-fingered, cool hand settles on his cheek, and the scream stops. Silence. Stiles pulls his hands away from his ears and opens his eyes. "Mom?" 

She stands in front of him, eyes gentle and curious. She shakes her head. "No." 

Stiles's heart shakes as she steps away, hand falling away from his face. She turns around and looks up at the sunlight filtering through the leaves of a massive tree that towers over the rest of the forest, its sprawling branches thick and numerous. 

Caught, Stiles walks past her and looks up. The branches grow out of it low and twisting, holding the rest of the forest at bay. The tree groans and creaks, and one of the branches stretches down towards Stiles, hovering at his waist. "Don't climb too high," his mother's voice warns from behind him, but when he looks around, no one's there. It's just him and the motionless tree and the empty forest. 

He hoists himself up onto the offered limb, its bark coarse and cutting against his palms. He swings his bare feet up onto the branch and stands up. He inches along it, towards the trunk, nearly falling over and catching himself on his hands for balance. He gets close enough to touch the limb above him and steps onto one of the smaller, shakier branches extending from the one beneath his feet. He can feel it watching him. He reaches up, grabbing onto the limb above him, thick as his fist— 

A heavy hand snatches him by the back of his shirt and yanks him down. "Whoa—" Stiles's feet hit the ground heavily, and he stumbles, only to find himself steadied by Peter's hand at the crook of his elbow. 

Peter frowns at him. "Not yet," he warns, shaking his head. 

"But I need to get to the top. So I can find out where I am," Stiles says. He starts to turn back to the tree, but Peter's rumbling growl makes him stop. 

Peter's skin contorts and his bones crack, his form shifting. "You need to run," he rumbles, his canines lengthening and his eyes flashing red. 

Panicking, Stiles bolts past the great tree trunk and finds himself crashing through thick, thorny underbrush. Wire-like twigs and branches smack his legs and cut the palms of his hands as he tries to stop them from whacking him in the face, and he stumbles and trips over God knows what. It's so hard to see in the darkness. Peter's bulky, black blur of a shape darts in and out of the darkness beside him, more like a bear than a wolf. It snaps at his heels repeatedly, always barely missing, its breath hot on his skin. 

Red eyes flash in front of him, and Stiles skids to a halt and trips, squeezing his eyes shut as he braces for impact— 

Gerard punches him in the face, knocking him back onto the cold basement floor. "Fix it, Stiles," he demands, standing over Stiles's prone body. Someone whimpers behind him. 

Stiles tries to get up, but he can't. His whole body hurts, his muscles stiff and shivering. "Please let them go," he begs. 

"Then fix it!" Gerard shouts, and he goes to turn up the voltage. 

"I don't know how!" 

Gerard turns the dial, and this time the whimpers and muffled groans don't come from just Erica and Boyd, but from Scott, Isaac, Lydia, Derek and Cora, all of them piercing Stiles's ears like wailing sirens. 

He shoves himself off the ground and throws himself at Gerard. He punches and punches until his knuckles bleed and he breaks the skin of Gerard's cheek. He wraps his hands around Gerard's throat and  _takes_. He siphons his life away, letting its energy flood his senses until it's all he can see and feel. It hums in his bones and sends jolts through his muscles, and he can't get enough, can  _never_ get enough. 

"Stiles!" Scott shouts, and he opens his eyes to see his father's body between his knees, his father's throat clenched beneath his fingertips, his father's body withering away to skin and bone against the cool cement of the Argents' dim basement, and Stiles still _can't stop_   _taking_  even as he hears his father choke. The life flows from his father into Stiles's fingertips and up into his heart, and all Stiles can do is watch as his dad's cheeks hollow and his skin becomes paper-thin and wrinkled, his eyes frail and dying as he looks at Stiles in horror and disappointment, and Stiles still can't stop, can't even wrench his hands away, because it just feels  _so good_. 

A hand grabs his shoulder. He whips around, startled, and Peter slams him up against the massive tree trunk. The moonlight hits Peter only on the scarred side of his face, leaving the other side in shadow. "I want the key," Peter demands, deceptively calm. 

Stiles breathes hard and heavy, not sure what to say. He glances around for an escape, but all he sees are their two shadows molded together and the dark silhouettes of the surrounding trees. 

Peter leans closer, his palm pressing heavily on Stiles's chest. He brings his other hand up to wind his fingers through Stiles's hair and pull his head closer. "And I get what I want," he murmurs, and he kisses Stiles like he's starving, like he wants to devour Stiles whole. Stiles leans into it because  _this_ , this he can understand. He understands the way Peter's hand curls around his waist. He understands the way Peter tilts his head to the side. He understands how Peter nips at his lower lip and licks his way into Stiles's mouth. He understands everything. 

He pulls away and places a comforting hand on the side of Peter's neck. "Not always," he says. 

Peter snarls and slams Stiles's wrists against the tree trunk beside his head, caging Stiles in between his arms. He kisses Stiles deep and slow, coaxing out grunts and eager moans until Stiles has to tear himself away to catch his breath. Hand slipping under the waistband of Stiles's boxers, Peter laughs quietly and takes Stiles's mouth again, and Stiles sinks into it, the Nemeton tree's bark rough and solid against his back. 

 

o-o-o 

 

He wakes up in his own bed, and he's fairly certain someone’s yanked his guts out to play cat’s cradle. He launches himself half over the side to puke all over the floor. 

"Stiles!" And oh, great, that's his dad. Why is his dad in his room and not the hospital? And why are Stiles's intestines trying to climb out his throat? 

"Wha—" Stiles moans. A garbage can magically appears in front of his face just in time for him to vomit again. Or at least he tries to vomit again. There's nothing much left. Head pounding, he can't even recall when he last ate. "Ugh." The thought of eating makes his insides twist all over again. "Oh, f—fuck," he coughs, voice quavering and wet, and dry heaves again, then stares at the messy floor in front of him, trying to get his bearings. 

His father gently pushes Stiles's sweaty hair off his forehead. "Deaton said this would probably happen. I'll be right back with a washcloth to clean you up." 

Stiles groans in response, and his father walks out of the room, leaving Stiles to stare at the empty garbage can like it's a black hole sucking him in. The seconds bleed together as Stiles takes stock of the situation. He vaguely remembers Aiden, then running, waking up by the Nemeton, Peter finding him and leading him out of the woods, then nothing. Before Stiles realizes what's happening, his father's tilting his head up to rub a warm washcloth over his face. "Think you can sit up?" 

Stiles grunts and nods slightly, limbs cramping together as he peels himself off his stomach and crawls up to the headboard, the world coming into painful focus around him. The midday sun shines around the closed blinds of his window, bathing his room in warm, too bright light. His father stands over him, brow wrinkled in concern, a lump of bandages covering the stab wound barely visible through his loose shirt. He offers Stiles a glass of water. 

Stiles takes it and sips before promptly spitting back into the glass. He sticks out his tongue and makes a sound of disgust. "Gross." 

His father snorts lightly and leaves briefly to bring back a fresh glass. "Come on, kiddo. Drink up." 

Stiles grimaces and forces himself to gulp it down, doing his best to ignore the rancid taste of vomit left in his mouth. Finally, he finishes, stomach uncomfortably heavy with water, and sets it on the bedside table. He smacks his lips together. "What happened?" His voice comes out thick and hoarse. 

His father frowns and sits down in the computer chair. "I was hoping you could tell me. You ran away from school yesterday, and we didn't find you until the middle of the night." 

Stiles shakes his head, looking around the room. "Was I unconscious or something?" When his dad shakes his head, forehead wrinkles deepening, Stiles bites his lower lip. "I don't remember getting here. Or seeing you last night. I just—" Stiles groans and buries his face in his hands. "What happened?" 

"I got a call from Scott in the middle of the day saying you went missing from school. After yesterday morning when they found you at our house. Alone. Even though I specifically told all of you to stick together." 

"Sorry," Stiles mumbles, staring at the ground. 

"Your friends went looking for you. Melissa and I did, too. The hospital released me…." He pauses, and the worry etched onto his face makes Stiles ache. "We couldn't find you." His dad swallows but doesn't look away. "Don't do that again, Stiles. I don't know why you did it, but please don't." 

"I didn't mean—" Stiles chokes. "Sorry." He tugs at his hair, knuckles whitening. 

His dad sighs. "Peter Hale," he says with a grimace, "brought you back in the middle of the night. Said he found you wandering around the preserve." 

That sounds familiar. At least Stiles wasn't naked and being haunted by a dead, serial killing werewolf who bit him during his high school dance. He was just found by the dead, serial killing werewolf who offered to bite him during his high school dance. And he's possibly being haunted by a tree. A dead tree. At least he had his clothes on. 

"You didn't say much, were pretty dead on your feet. We got you home. Scott convinced Deaton to take a look at you." His dad pulls a little vial of mountain ash out of his pocket and gives it a little shake. "Gave me this –mountain dust or whatever the hell it is, and here we are." 

"Mountain ash. What did he say about me?" 

His father scowls. "Nothing much. He mentioned some –magical residue—" he waves at Stiles as if to encompass his entire body "—and said you'd probably be sick when you woke up, but otherwise fine. He 'predicted'." The muscle in his father's jaw jumps. "So what can you tell me?" 

Stiles swallows and bites his lip, looking away. 

"No secrets," his dad warns, which makes Stiles pause, panicking internally as he tries to figure out what to say. Because honestly, this is his life. It's not like he can tell the whole truth. "Stiles," his dad sighs, like he knows exactly what Stiles is thinking, which he probably does. 

Stiles sighs, deciding to go with the very basics. He looks up. "So you know how Deaton mentioned magic?" 

Despite his exasperated confusion, his dad visibly relaxes, and guilt threatens to eat Stiles alive as he ponders just how much his secrets must have been killing his dad to make him this relieved that Stiles is admitting something magical actually happened. "I've kinda been… using it." He swallows and wraps his arms around himself. "And I think it might be using me back." 

"Stiles." His dad's face does this –this thing, twitches like he's suppressing a tremor running through him. He leans forward, hands on his knees, like he always does when he gets angry and wants to physically tackle all Stiles's problems, but they both know he can't tackle this. He stills, muscle in his jaw jumping, and covers his mouth with his hand before gesturing at Stiles, body strained with tension. "Go on." 

"It –it's nothing like it is in Harry Potter. Honestly, I'm getting the feeling it's more like the Force." Stiles forces out a laugh and shrugs. "I don't really know yet." 

His dad remains silent, so Stiles forces himself to continue. "I might have, ah—" How the fuck is he supposed to tell his dad he nearly killed someone and fed their lifeforce to a tree? "Well—" Stiles looks around, and lo and behold, Riley the Peppy Plant sits on the corner of his desk. He stands up, a little off balance, stomach churning, but otherwise fine, and picks the pot up. "Remember this plant?" 

His dad nods, and Stiles sets it back down. "No one's watered it since –you know, I started staying at Scott's. The night before last night, I brought it back to life." His dad's eyebrows make a valiant effort to shoot \past his hairline. "Well, I mean, it wasn't totally dead yet," Stiles says hastily. "But I didn't water it or anything. There was this ritual in this book—" oh no, his Dad's gonna ask where he got the book, gotta move on "—and I used it to basically, I dunno, 'transfer' some of my—" if he says 'life force', his dad's gonna freak "—uh, energy, to it. And, heh," Stiles gestures at the plant. "Here it is. Good as new. Or fresh, I guess? I dunno." 

His dad takes a deep breath and rubs the bridge of his nose. "This is crazy. First there's werewolves, lizardmen, evil druids and banshees, and now you're, what? Are you a druid, too?" He narrows his eyes. "Does Jennifer Blake know about this?" 

"Um. Hm. Okay. First off, I don't know what I am. I mean, I don't know if I'm anything. Well, Deaton called me a spark at one point, but with him you never know. It could have been Spark with a capital 'S', or it could have just been metaphorical, unimportant spark. But the point is—magic. It's a thing. That I'm learning to use. And yeah, Jennifer sort of knows, I guess, maybe, but she's not teaching me. We're not, like, bff's or anything." 

His dad does not look mollified. "Then who's teaching you?" 

Well, fuck. He's not telling his father about Peter. Peter's up to no good, obviously, but he's useful. Also there's the whole creepy, sexual tension thing going on, which, no, Stiles's father is never finding out about ever. Never ever. "I'm… teaching myself? Oh! But Deaton taught me the basics." 

His dad closes his eyes and takes a calming breath. " _Deaton_ taught you? Did he know–magic—was going to use you back? Do I need to have a talk with him?" 

"No no no," Stiles says hastily. "I made him teach me." He winces. "He didn't want to, but I might have threatened to go to Jennifer if he didn't." 

His dad squints at him, exasperated, but then his expression fades into–oh, God, sadness. Stiles made his dad sad. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?" 

His father handwaves it away. "Nothing. Just—tell me what all this has to do with you wandering around the woods in the middle of the night." 

Best to rip off the bandaid while he can. Stiles sighs and sits on the end of his bed. He looks down, not wanting to see his father's expression. "The Alpha twins tried to kill me yesterday. One of them started a fight with Isaac as a distraction, I'm pretty sure, and the other…" Stiles shrugs. "I think I was –I know I was dying." He looks down at his hands, dirt and dried blood worked into the tiny lines of his fingerpads. "They wanted to send a message to Scott or Derek, I still don't know, and they were gonna do it by killing me. And I just –I got  _so_ angry, and then I—" Stiles shakes his head. 

"Stiles?" 

Stiles looks up to find his father watching him carefully, searching his expression for something. "Did you kill him?" 

Stiles shakes his head. 

"Did you try to kill him?" 

Stiles can't bring himself to nod. 

His father nods, whatever he was looking for confirmed, and stands up to approach Stiles. He squeezes Stiles's shoulder. "I'm not upset. I'll be right back." 

He leaves the room, and Stiles buries his face in his hands. His father just found out his son's becoming a murderer. How could he possibly not be upset? 

His dad returns with his pistol, and Stiles's eyes go wide. He knows his father would never shoot him,  _but_ — 

"It's not loaded," his dad says, handing him the Glock. 

"Yeah, I can see that." Gun safety has always been a priority in their house. Stiles takes it, not knowing what else to do, and dangles it in front of his face by the barrel. "But why did you just give me your gun!?" Stiles's voice absolutely does not go up an octave. 

"I was trained to kill with that gun, Stiles. I've used it to shoot people. I've almost killed people with it. Does that make me a bad person?" 

Stiles accidentally drops the gun, fumbling with it before it falls into his lap. He picks it back up and gingerly sets it down beside him on the bed. "No," he mumbles. He can see where this is going. 

"And if I ever have to defend myself or protect someone else by using it and I end up killing with it, will that make me a bad person?" 

Stiles rolls his eyes. "No." 

His dad nods. "Mmhm. I don't blame you, Stiles." He squeezes Stiles's shoulder again. "If anything, I'm glad you did it. Because I don't think you'd be here if you hadn't." He leans down, hands on his knees, to look Stiles in the eye. "Do you think you'll be okay?" 

Stiles attempts a wavering grin, feeling like a weight's been lifted off his shoulders. "Well, honestly, I could care less if the dude died. I just, you know, didn't want you to be disappointed. In me. Although, uh, taking a life, you know, kinda a big deal. A huge deal. Big moral dilemma there." Oh, God, his dad's gonna start thinking he's joined Beacon Hills' resident serial killer club. 

His dad snorts and ruffles Stiles's hair. "You're something else, kiddo." Hopefully, 'something else' is not code for 'complete and total psycho'. His dad takes the gun and sits back in the computer chair, setting the gun on the desk. "So you almost killed the kid who tried to kill you. These are the same twins who helped kill–Vernon Boyd?" 

Stiles nods. 

"Stiles," his dad says seriously. "I've met with Boyd's parents." He shakes his head. "I can't lose you like that." He glances at his gun, and Stiles wonders if he's gotten wolfsbane bullets from Chris Argent yet. 

Stiles forgets, sometimes, what his father's capable of, what his father  _could_ be capable of. "I can't lose you, either." 

"I remember." His dad rubs the bandage through his shirt, his eyes going distant for a moment before he blinks back into focus. "How did you do it? Did you cast some sort of spell?" 

"No, I—" Stiles scratches the back of his neck. "I don't really know. It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing. I just –took. I guess I—" Fuck it, he knows what he did. "I stole his life force or whatever away," he finally says, fluttering his hands. It sounds so fucking bad when he says it that way, but, well, Stiles never claimed to be a good person. "It was pretty instinctual." 

"Then what?" 

"I ran. I was scared, and I had all this extra energy. I felt like I'd explode if I didn't get rid of it." 

"And then?" 

And then Stiles brought a dead tree back to life. A dead, magical tree with a history. And he did it unintentionally. As if someone–or something—was controlling him. And then Peter just miraculously happened to show up. And sure, Peter had suggested that it was the Nemeton that was controlling Stiles, and it felt like the truth, but what if it wasn't? 

What if it that missing chunk of time between hitting the tree line and waking up on the Nemeton was Peter's doing? It wouldn't be unusual. He Alpha-whammied Scott into almost killing that bus driver, and God knows what he did to Lydia. Stiles's gut says no, the words, "Do you want the bite?" ringing in his ears, but what if his gut's wrong? What if Peter's controlling Stiles now, too? "Christ," Stiles breathes. 

"Stiles?" 

Stiles blinks back into focus and shakes his head. "Sorry, I just—I don't remember. One moment I was, I was running out of the school, and the next I'm here." He pushes himself off the bed and stumbles towards the door, practically tripping over his feet. "I need to talk to Deaton." God help him. 

"Stiles, what are you—get back here." His dad yanks him back by the back of his shirt before he can even reach the doorway. "What you need is more water and something to eat." 

"No, I know, but I need to see Deaton  _now_." He starts to pull away but stops when his dad smacks him over the head. 

"Eat first. Then Deaton. I don't want you getting in a car accident on the way there because you're half-starved." 

"Oh, come on." His dad gives him a look. "Fine. M'gonna have to make something from scratch, aren't I?" he grumbles, turning towards the doorway. 

"Probably. And one more thing." Stiles turns around to see his dad holding up his pistol. "Everything I said before still stands. But what you have to remember about this is that I'd be a danger to myself and everyone around me if I didn't have the training to use it." 

"I'm trying to learn, Dad." 

"I know." His dad sighs and pockets the gun. "But I know you, too, Stiles. I'm not saying don't use it; given what we're up against, we need all the resources we can get. But don't push yourself too hard. You need to be able to control this. You can't let it control you." 

Stiles swallows. He remembers running out of the school, out of his mind with power. "What if I can't?" His voice comes out unbearably small. 

His dad stays silent for a moment, the muscle of his jaw jumping. He tugs Stiles into a hug. "We'll figure it out," he says. "We'll get through this. For now, just take it slow." A smile tugs at his lips, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He steps away from Stiles and pulls a stun gun out of his other pocket. He hands it to Stiles. "And try to use this first next time. Let's try to save your—" he waves his hand around "—magic—as a last resort." 

Stiles knows his father can't predict the future, but he'll take what he can get. He nods and takes the stun gun. "Okay." 

His dad pats him on the back, and they pull away. "Come on, kiddo, let's get you something to eat." 

Their late lunch is a relatively silent affair with Stiles picking distastefully at his pasta and barely managing to appease his father by gulping down another glass of water. He's saved from having to eat the second half of his bowl when Derek texts both Stiles and his father to say he's arrived to pick up Stiles –which, what? 

"What—" 

"He's taking you to Deaton's." 

"What!? Why—" 

"I told you, no going anywhere alone. I don't want you driving in your condition, and I'm on too many painkillers to do it myself." 

Stiles winces. It hadn't even occurred to him that his father might still be in pain. "What about Scott?" 

His dad sighs. "He's at school. I called you out sick." 

Oh. "Well, ah, okay then." School. Sometimes Stiles forgets that school even exists anymore. He shoots Derek a quick text in response and gets ready to go, promising to keep his dad updated.

Derek's wearing his usual grumpy face and leather jacket when Stiles gets in his car, and Stiles wonders just how much he knows about what's going on. It's inconvenient, but apparently Derek's gonna be there when he talks to Deaton, so he probably shouldn't hide too many details. He decides to jump right in. 

"So, the Nemeton, what's up with that?" 

Derek visibly stills, then scowls at Stiles, and Stiles remembers that, oh, yeah, Derek killed his dream girlunder the Nemeton tree. Very tactful, Stiles. Nice. If he's lucky, Derek won't bash his brains in this time. 

"Uh," Stiles says, trying to think of some way to explain his curiosity while making sure his story matches what he told his dad. "…Peter mentioned it, and I might have, uh, had a dream about it." It's totally the truth, too. 

Derek's eyebrows scream  _What!?_  at him. "You know, big magic tree?" Stiles says. "Except it's –it was, uh, cut down. In my dream." 

Derek's eyebrows know he's hiding something, don't they? "I honestly don't know," Derek eventually sighs. "We used to use it to hide." 

"You don't remember anything else?" 

Derek glowers. 

"Anything at all?" 

"No, Stiles." 

Seriously, how is Stiles supposed to fact-check when the person born in the supernatural world knows next to nothing about it? 

Derek glares out the windshield for most of the ride, only speaking when Stiles breaks the silence to ask about the twin he  _nearly_ killed. Apparently it was Aiden, and Ethan got him out of there too quickly for anyone to know his current condition. 

"What have you gotten yourself into, Stiles?" The way Derek says it, it doesn't sound like a question, but since Derek doesn't punctuate like normal people, that's how Stiles decides to interpret it. 

He shrugs. "No idea. That's why I need to see Deaton." 

Derek grunts noncommittally. 

After a brief moment of silence, Stiles asks, voice hushed, "How are you?" 

Derek's fingers tighten around the wheel. 

Stiles is totally the wrong person to ask this because he is just  _not_ equipped to handle stuff like this, but he's probably the only one who's thought–or dared—to ask. "Do you… wanna talk about it?" Which, okay, 'it' is pretty vague. There's a lot of 'it'in Derek's life. "Uh, any of it?" 

"No," Derek grunts, eyes glued to the road. 

Stiles nods, breathing out a sigh of relief, to his shame. "Okay." He drums his fingers against his leg. As much as he hates Derek's bullheaded propensity for keeping his few cards close, Stiles feels for the guy. He kinda wants to bundle him up in blankets and feed him hot chocolate and keep him far, far away from Peter and Jennifer and Deucalion and basically the entire world. Somehow he doesn't think Derek would appreciate the sentiment if he knew. 

"Well, if you ever do—" Stiles snorts. "You know where my window is." He waggles his eyebrows. "Miguel." 

He's pretty sure Derek's eyebrows twitch in amusement. He decides to call it a success. 

 

o-o-o 

 

"I was wondering when you'd show up," says Deaton as he works on an anesthetized cat. Stiles tells Deaton the same story he told Derek, and Deaton proceeds to dodge Stiles's questions about what the Nemeton actually  _does_ and instead offers groundbreaking advice such as, "You have to be careful, Stiles," and, "Don't go looking for that tree, Stiles," and, "Perhaps you should wait to learn magic until you're ready, Stiles."  

After one too many cryptic answers about the Nemeton and magic, Stiles finally cuts Deaton off mid-sentence. "Look, dude, I don't have time for this bullshit—" 

"Stiles!" Derek snaps, but Stiles blows right past him. 

"I get it, learn control, okay, will do–but honestly, you need to give me the whole picture for once. If I don't learn control, what's gonna happen? Who's gonna control me? Is it the fucking tree? Is it Peter—" 

"Peter?" Derek asks, and Deaton looks concerned, and whoops, Stiles didn't wanna put it out there that blatantly because Peter is the only one offering him  _actually useful_ information, and if they try to take that away from him, Stiles is gonna be pissed. 

"You know: Peter. Manipulative mastermind Peter. The creepy uncle who tried to make Scott kill me and mind-whammied Lydia into bringing him back. That guy. Controlling people –kind of a habit of his, I don't know if you've noticed." 

The two seem appeased, and Stiles breathes out a quiet sigh of relief. Deaton shakes his head. "This isn't something a werewolf could do. This is something worse." Oh, wonderful. "I meant what I said earlier, Stiles. Don't go looking for the Nemeton." 

" _Why!?_ Is it gonna use me like a magic vampire to suck the life out of the town or what? What's gonna happen?" 

Deaton continues working on the cat, cool as can be. "I'm afraid that's all I can tell you." 

"You mean that's all you're  _willing_  to—" 

"Stiles," Derek snaps. "Let's go." 

"Fine!" He stomps past Derek and storms out of the building. Or, he intends to, but then he whips around and marches back up to Deaton. He holds his hand out. "If you're not going to give me anything else, can you at least give me some mountain ash to defend myself with the next time a werewolf decides to beat me to death?" 

The muscle in Deaton's jaw jumps, but he still turns around to rummage in his cupboards. He pulls out a small, cubic jar the length of Stiles's thumb. "You may need to start ordering your own," he says. "I'm afraid I'm starting to run out." He hands the jar to Stiles. 

"Run out? Dude, can't you just imagine more into existence?" 

"It doesn't work quite like that." 

Stiles isn't even gonna comment on the sketchy vagueness of that. "Fine. So what, do I just order a tree and burn it, or is it more complicated than that?" 

It's totally more complicated than that. So complicated it makes Stiles's cheeks burn and makes him reluctant to use mountain ash ever again. 

Shoulders hunched, he scuttles out of Deaton's office and finds Derek waiting by the front doors, smirk tugging at his lips. Eavesdropping asshole. He follows Derek out into the parking lot. 

As disturbing as the mountain ash explanation was, at least he knows Peter's not mind-controlling him. That's a plus. Maybe. Peter would definitely be easier to kill than the Nemeton, unless— 

"Hey, Derek," Stiles says as he waits for him to unlock the Camaro. "What if we find the Nemeton and set it on fire?" 

Derek freezes and stares at him like he's crazy, nostrils flaring, his finger poised over the unlock button. And, oh yeah, entire family set on fire. Stiles is a horrible person. "Or pay a construction company to uproot it. That would probably work, too. Or poison. People poison weeds all the time. Maybe—" 

"Stiles," Derek snaps. "Deaton said someone cut it down years ago, and look what's happened to this town in the meantime. What do you think is gonna happen if you manage to actually kill it this time?" 

Stiles opens his mouth to retort, but honestly he's got nothing. "Point." 

Derek rolls his eyes and unlocks the car. Stiles starts to get in, but Derek holds up a hand. "What?" asks Stiles. "What's wrong? Is it the Alphas? Derek—" 

"Shut up," Derek hisses. He examines the area around them and peers into the car. Chewing on his lower lip, Stiles follows his gaze, but he doesn't see anything odd. Not that that means much. Finally Derek says, eyes still suspicious, "Get in the car." 

Stiles gets in the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote this sometime around, ehhh, late June/early July, and then I sorta kept up with season 4, and then Rafael had the necessary killing talk with Scott, and now I feel like a failure.
> 
> Also, everyone's gotta write a crazy dream sequence sometime in their life. I have now filled my quota. How'd I do? Too realistic? Not realistic enough? Too lucid? Not lucid enough? Comments feed my soul.
> 
> I am so excited to post the rest of this, you have no idea. It's gonna be awesome. Just wait until chapters 7 & 8\. 
> 
> *It should be noted that although I've ordered you to go hump someone, you should get their consent first.


	6. Swindle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> swindle: a ruse by which a player in a losing position tricks his opponent, and thereby achieves a win or draw instead of the expected loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> much thanks to [edragoon](http://edragoon.tumblr.com/) for her feedback!

The drive back to his house is nerve-racking. Derek's eyes dart back and forth between the windshield and the mirrors, and for the first fifteen minutes of the drive it seems like he's worrying about nothing. It's the middle of the afternoon in broad daylight, and they only pass two other cars, both of them minivans.

Then they reach the five minute stretch of forest preserve that lies between Deaton's clinic and Stiles's subdivision, and a wild twin appears in the middle of the road right in front of them,  _roaring_  –because obviously just seeing him isn't enough. 

Derek slams on the brakes and yanks on the emergency brake. "Dude, run him over!" Stiles shouts even as the car skids to a stop inches away from the twin. 

"Drive home," Derek orders, and then he disappears out the door. 

"What the hell!?" Stiles panics as, in front of the car, Derek and the twin slash at each other. He scrambles into the driver's seat just as Derek drags the twin off to the side of the road. 

"Stiles, go!" he hears Derek's muffled shout through the glass, and he feels awful leaving Derek alone, but it's only the twin so far, and Derek can handle him, right? 

"Stiles!" 

With a click, Stiles pushes the emergency brake down and slams on the accelerator, taking off with a squeal. 

He drives for a minute before nearly running into a downed tree in the middle of the road. "Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck, motherfucking—" If he was in his Jeep he might be able to go off road around it, but noooo, Derek has to drive a nifty little sports car. "Goddamnit." He slaps his hands on the wheel and decides to go off road anyway, only to see Kali smiling at him through the driver's side window. "Holy—" he screeches. Ten bucks says the tree in the middle of the road is no coincidence. 

He starts scrambling to the passenger side, but before he can get even an inch away Kali wrenches the Camaro's door off its hinges and tosses it away. Poor Derek. 

"Hello, Stiles," she purrs –because apparently Peter's not the only one who purrs, go figure—and yanks Stiles out of the car. She slams him down against the hood. "Tell me what you did to Aiden." 

Stiles's hands fly to her wrists, trying to tug her away, but, as expected, it doesn't do any good. "Come on, lady, I don't know. Maybe you should talk to Deaton. Or Jennifer –I'm sure she has a good idea—" 

Kali shakes him and growls, baring her teeth before she visibly restrains herself. "You know there's no point in lying, so spit it out and I'll kill you quickly, or don't, and I'll force it out of you bone by bone." 

"Oh, that's, uh, that's a lovely description." Stiles bites his lip and tightens his fingers around her wrists. He tries to recall how it felt to siphon the life out of Aiden, but the feeling won't come. "I just, uh, I just, you know, I didn't wanna die so I prayed to God for forgiveness, and I think Jesus—" 

She growls again, one of her hands moving up to Stiles's neck and tightening enough to make him wheeze. Her claws prick the skin of his throat, and he remembers the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. His stomach lurches, and he  _pulls._

Kali shakes her head and laughs. "What was that, a tickle?" 

"Try to sound more evil," Stiles grinds out, angry more at himself than anything. He had  _it_. It was almost there, but he can't find—"I dare you." His left hand tightens around Kali's wrist, but his right hand drops to his side, slipping into his pocket. 

Her hand slides up to his cheek, and he sucks in a desperate breath of air as he wraps his fingers around the stun gun. "I can see why they keep you around," Kalie says. She slides a bare, clawed foot up Stiles's leg, and Stiles stiffens. "Maybe we'll keep you, find out what makes you tick." She smiles. "You'd make a great pet." 

"So many dog jokes, so little time." He pulls out the stun gun. 

She taps his cheek. "How cute." Her hand slides up to his forehead, but before she can bash his head into the car, Stiles jams the stun gun into her side. 

She stiffens, hands spasming, and Stiles uses the brief respite to wrench away and reach for the mountain ash with his other hand. Moving jerkily, she lunges towards him, and Stiles tases her again and fumbles with the cap of the mountain ash, awkwardly dumping it around him in a wild mess of glittering black dust, losing half of it in the breeze. 

Kali lunges for him again, and he panics. He gestures with his hands and wills the ash to circle around his feet, heart pounding. 

Kali smacks against the invisible barrier inches away from his face with a snarl. 

Stiles beams in excitement, amazed at the circle around him. "I did it!" His smile couldn't possibly grow any wider. "Holy shit!" 

Kali slams her fist against the barrier. "How long do you think you can stay in there?" 

Stiles's smile disappears. "Uh, lemme think. As long as it takes you to go away." He caps the unfortunately empty jar and tucks it into his pocket, pulling his phone out in its place. He pulls up Chris Argent's contact number. 

Kali hums, eyeing the Camaro. "How about as long as it takes me to hit you with a car?" 

Stiles hits the call button without looking away from Kali. "Well, then…, you would never find out what I did to Aiden." Oh, yeah! Leverage. Stiles totally has it. 

Kali turns her back on Stiles and saunters towards the Camaro. "Then I guess I'll just have to… nudge you politely," she says over her shoulder, and oh, God, she's gonna push him out of the circle with the car. Whoever manufactured stun guns totally forgot to include a werewolf setting. 

His brain working overtime, Stiles looks down at the circle of mountain ash then watches her walk away, just a few footsteps away from the car. He was able to will the mountain ash into a circle around himself. Maybe that's not all he can do with it. 

He envisions the mountain ash, feeling it tingling at the edges of his senses, and shoves it towards Kali with his hands and mind, willing it into a circle around her. 

Swirling and glittering in the sunlight, it flies towards her on a gust of wind and encircles her body a foot before she reaches the car. She slams against it face first.

Stiles whoops. "Oh, yeah, that's how you get it done, baby!" 

Kali turns around to glare at him. "You're joking." 

Stiles snickers and walks up to her, sticking the stun gun in his pocket. "How you like me now, sucker?" He does a jig with his arms and shoulders. 

Kali snarls and lunges towards him, slamming up against the barrier again. 

Stiles skitters around her and slides past the thin line of ash into the car. "Well, it's been great seeing you," he says, revving the engine, "but I have a brooding alpha to save." He sends the car into reverse with a squeal. "Have a nice stay!" he shouts, spinning the Camaro around. He speeds away, eyeing her fading form in the mirror. "Oh, yeah," he gloats as she disappears. "Who's bad? I'm bad. I'm real bad—" 

"Stiles!" Derek shouts as Stiles blows right past him. 

Stiles slams on the brakes and puts the car in reverse again, backing up towards Derek. He looks bruised and a little worse for wear, but otherwise intact. "Hey, dude," Stiles says, resting his arm on the wheel and waving as he stops in front of him. "What's up?" 

Derek bitchfaces, gesturing at the missing door. His eyebrows promise pain. "What the hell?" 

Stiles winces. "I might have had a little run-in with Kali. She's still up there." 

"Kali? Are you okay?" Nostrils flaring, Derek shifts onto the balls of his feet, examining the woods around them. 

"Oh, yeah, I'm all good. And don't worry about her. I trapped her in a circle of mountain ash." He grins, waggling his fingers and eyebrows. 

Derek's eyebrows shoot up. 

Stiles gestures at himself. "Go on, tell me I'm awesome." 

Derek rolls his eyes and shoves him into the passenger seat. "You're ridiculous," he grumbles. 

Stiles takes it as a win.

 Derek ends up moving the tree out of the road, one eye on Kali the whole time. He drops Stiles off at his house before leaving to go lift weights or whatever it is he does when he's not getting beaten up. 

Stiles tells his dad what happened, and no matter how much he downplays the situation, his dad still worries, going so far as to mention moving out of Beacon Hills. Stiles talks him out of it, convincing him they'll figure it out if they all get together and talk it out, and his dad decides to hold another meeting, which was not Stiles's intention, but hey, some more group communication will probably be a good thing. Maybe it'll stop Scott from going awol again like he did with Gerard and the kanima. 

The conversation with his father sets Stiles on edge, but on the plus side, he gets a fun new budget out of it, and he spends the next two hours on the internet ordering all the different types of mountain ash he can find. He orders planks of it, a baseball bat made of it, and even a potted sapling. He's not exactly sure what he's gonna do with that last one. Maybe they'll be able to keep it in the house. 

His search extends to wolfsbane, and he manages to buy a few packets of seeds from a sketchy "hedgewitch" site (which he's pretty sure isn't related to real magic, but whatever, they've got the seeds, so works for him) before his father forces him to stop and eat dinner. 

As soon as dinner's over, he goes back up to his room, planning to do some more reading from Peter's moth-eaten book, but as soon as his shoulders hit the pillow, the exhaustion hits, and he crashes. 

 

o-o-o 

 

Falling asleep at eight pm when he's used to getting less than six hours of sleep every night means he wakes up at four in the morning with an itch under his skin that refuses to let him fall back asleep. It's a Saturday, though, so as much as he would like to sleep in till the afternoon, he's not particularly upset. He grabs Peter's book off his bedside table and flicks on the light.

The more he reads, the more he realizes he probably should have read more theory before trying to resurrect Riley the Peppy Plant. He's been thinking of his magic as its own independent source within him, but magic isn't independent at all. It stretches across the world like a web, lines of it meeting and gathering in nodes, like the Nemeton. Normal humans can utilize it with the help of magical objects or catalysts, like mountain ash, and "sparks" like Stiles can tap into it on their own and build their own tiny reserves of it because they're already essentially part of it. 

If he wants to use and control magic without any help, such as the water he used on Riley the Peppy Plant, he has to feel the currents running through him, the book says, and find his center. He finds a small levitation spell to test his magic out once he finds it. It sounds easy. 

It's really not. 

Hours later when pale blue tinges the darkness outside, he can feel his center; he's positive it's that knot of energy in his gut, but it's walled off. It slips away from him whenever he feels close to grasping it, and the pencil he tries to levitate doesn't so much as twitch. 

He gets out of bed and peers out the window. The trees dotting the clean-cut lawns sway in the wind, leaves whispering together. Thin lines of clouds cover the pale, crescent moon, already fading away with the new daylight, hints of sunlight to come lighting up the horizon. 

He can't learn here. He has to get out. 

Even with his gut telling him it's not enough, he tries sitting out in the backyard on the rickety bench his mother used to love so much. He brings his stun gun with him, but an hour later, no one's attacked him, and he hasn't been able to levitate a thing. 

If he could just visit the Nemeton for a moment, he's sure he'd be able to get a handle on it. 

He scrolls through his contact list, thinking of who he could use as an excuse to go looking for the Nemeton without them realizing what he's doing or relaying it back to Derek or Deaton, and hesitates over Cora and Isaac. With a disappointed frown, he half-heartedly scans through the rest of the list and pauses, thumb hovering over Peter's name. He doesn't remember getting Peter's number. What a creep. 

He makes a face and taps the text icon beside Peter's name. God help him. 

 

o-o-o 

 

Later that evening, his dad calls everyone over to their house. Everyone. Except Deaton and Jennifer, thank God. The last time so many people were at Stiles's house was the fourth of July three years ago when his dad hosted the annual family reunion and Stiles had to relearn all his cousins' names just so he could forget them as soon as they left the next day. 

The arm of the couch next to Cora, sitting next to Scott and Isaac, seems like an acceptable place for Stiles to perch and listen in from, but the number of people in his too loud house makes him antsy and unwilling to stay off his feet for long, so he soon scoots past Lydia's odd spot on the corner of the coffee table to lean over the back of his father's armchair, facing Melissa, Chris, Allison, and Derek where they've planted themselves in the chairs he'd brought in from the dining room. Peter leans against the tv stand behind Derek's chair, and Stiles pretends he's invisible even while Peter's self-satisfied gaze sets Stiles that much more on edge. 

Apparently it's a good thing his dad arranged this meeting, because pretty much no one knows exactly what's going on. 

"You're magical now?" Chris asks, clearly unimpressed by this turn of events. 

Stiles nods. "Looks like. Whether I'll ever actually be able to use that magic again, who knows, but yeah. Apparently it's a thing." 

"You can't control it?" Chris asks. 

Stiles blinks and shifts on his feet. "If I say no, are you gonna hunt me down and shoot me?" His eyes dart over to Allison, who frowns. 

"Stiles," she says, brow furrowing. "No. No, of course not." 

"Oh, right, of course not," Stiles mutters bitterly. He glances away and unintentionally shares a glance with Peter. 

Stiles quickly looks away, perturbed. He and Peter should never be on the same page. Ever. 

Allison's face does this trembly thing, and it makes him feel like shit. "I'm just—" he takes a deep breath. "I'm just gonna get a glass of water." Already walking away, he nudges his dad's shoulder. "You can tell'em the rest."

He wanders into the kitchen and takes his time getting himself a drink, trying to get his nerves under control, and seriously, having so many people under his roof shouldn't be a problem, but it is. There are three people who belong in his house: him, his father, and Scott. Maybe sometimes Melissa. And seeing as how he extended that invitation to Derek, maybe him, too, if he ever decides to have a meltdown. Not that Stiles wants Derek to have a meltdown. Although, really, the dude needs one –but not right now. There's way too much going on right now. 

God, Stiles needs a moment to breathe and clear his head. 

He plants his elbows on the counter beside the stove, out of sight of any potential watchers, and leans forward, settling his face in his hands and staring at the swirls in the wood of the cabinet through the v of his fingers. He inhales deeply and reminds himself to relax his shoulders. 

Scott walks around the corner of the small entrance hallway between the living room and kitchen and leans on the door jamb to peer at Stiles. Stiles straightens, shoving his hands into his pockets, and opens his mouth to say something witty, but Scott gets there first. "You okay, Stiles?" 

Stiles deflates and rests his hip against the counter. "Yeah, just freaking out about the Alphas running around town. What else is new?" 

Scott looks at him with big, puppy dog eyes. "I won't let them hurt you again." 

Oh, Scott _._  Touched despite all else, Stiles grins and says, heart rate steady, "You're the best, dude." 

"Notice how he didn't actually agree with you, Scott," Peter drawls, and Stiles whips around to see him standing in the dining room doorway. 

"What?" asks Scott. 

Stiles bristles and steps towards Peter. "Dude, what the hell is your problem? It's like you  _want_ to be set on fire again." 

"Try to be a little more creative, Stiles," Peter says as he moseys all too leisurely into the kitchen. 

"Well, if the method works," Stiles starts. He stops and scowls when Scott pulls Stiles behind him and steps up to meet Peter, who stops and looks down his nose at Scott like he's eyeing a bug he's thinking of crushing. 

"Whatever you have to say to me, say it," says Scott, bless his heart. 

"No, no, no, it's fine, forget it, Scott—" Stiles says, trying to insert himself between his best friend and the manipulative undead who Stiles knows is about to crush Scott's precious soul, but it's too late, because Scott's holding him back and Peter's already opening his mouth to speak. 

"One of these days you're going to make a promise you can't keep, and you're going to get everyone you love killed out of your own blind arrogance." 

"Is that a threat?" Scott's eyes flash golden. 

Peter's eyes flick towards the ceiling as if praying for patience then back down to meet Scott's. "No, Scott—" he spits out his name like a curse "—it's the truth. Stiles just doesn't want to hurt you by saying it aloud." 

Scott growls, but before he can do anything, Stiles shoves himself in between them. "Are you fucking kidding—" He takes Scott's face in his hands. "What have I told you about Peter?" Scott yanks away, but Stiles grabs him back. "Scott!" 

"What are you talking about?" Scott asks, forehead screwed up in angry confusion. 

"After Deaton's office? What did I say?" 

"He's trying to get in my head," Scott mumbles, looking away. 

"Of course I am," Peter jumps in before Stiles can say anything else. "I'm trying to get the truth in your head so you don't get us all killed. It's time to get over yourself, Scott," he says slowly. 

Stiles huffs in anger and whirls on him. "Oh, that's rich—" 

"He has a point. About the promise thing," Isaac notes from behind them, and that's when Stiles looks around and realizes they have an audience. Cora and Lydia stand by Isaac in the doorway behind Scott, and Allison, Melissa, and Chris stand together in the door jamb between the kitchen and dining room. They all look some shade of uncomfortably divided, except Cora, whose eyebrows do this little arch-thing in agreement, and Chris, whose brow is furrowed in thought. 

Stiles looks back at Isaac. "Whose side are you on!?" 

Isaac shrugs. "Our side. You know, the non-murderous Alpha one?" 

Stiles waves his arms in Peter's direction. 

"I wasn't here for that," Isaac says, like somehow that makes Peter's statement completely fair and valid. Which it maybe sorta is, but that is so not the point. 

"So!?" Stiles flails more at Peter, almost whacking him in the face and making him lean away with a frown. "That doesn't mean it didn't happen!" He looks at Peter and points in the direction of the front door. "You know what, you can just get out." 

Peter crosses his arms. "Really, Stiles?" 

Stiles scowls and stomps his foot like the five-year-old he totally isn't. "Really, really. Unless you want a stick of mountain ash—" 

"Stiles," his dad says from behind him, hand gripping his shoulder. "That's enough. No one's attacking anyone, and we have to decide what to do about the—alpha pack—before anyone leaves." Stile wonders if his dad will ever be able to refer to the supernatural without having to mentally fortify himself first. 

His dad looks around the room, eyes lingering on Peter and Scott. "So, here's what we know. We can't take them all at once. We can trap them, but not for long. I've had my deputies look into them as much as legally possible. So far they haven't found anything. At least one of them has a lot of money they're using to cover their tracks, and I won't be able to do much more as Sheriff without a warrant." 

"Probably best to keep your department out of it, anyway," says Chris, rubbing at his jaw. When Stiles's dad bristles, Chris adds, "Not unless you're prepared to explain the situation to your deputies." 

Derek stiffens, looking ready to object, but Stiles's dad just sighs. "Yeah, you're right. We're still low on staff after that Kanima business." He runs a hand through his hair, and guilt gnaws at Stiles's ribs. "I'd rather not lose any more."

 "Could you find out where their money's coming from?" asks Lydia. 

Stiles perks up. "Maybe you could cut it off at the source. Make things a little more difficult for them." 

"And what do you think that'll do? Annoy them out of town?" asks Derek. 

"It doesn't matter," Peter says. "If I know Deucalion, he's earning it legally. He's the type to invest." 

"So what do you suggest?" Stiles challenges. If Peter's going to shoot down ideas, he better actually contribute something. 

Peter picks at his fingernails. "You know my suggestion." 

Stiles blinks and tilts his head slightly in partial agreement. He feels a little dirty, being on the same page as Peter again, but hey, at least he isn't the one suggesting it for once. 

"We're not killing anyone," Scott says. Melissa eyes Peter and shakes her head, but Chris looks like he might actually be contemplating it, and Stiles can't read his father's face. 

"Deucalion's not going to let you drive him out of town," Peter says, eyes flicking to Derek before focusing on Scott. "He's going to pick you off one by one until you break, and you know it." Stiles finds himself nodding along in agreement. Urgh. 

Scott's jaw tightens. "We'll figure something out. We can —they've murdered people. We can put them in jail." He looks at Stiles's dad for support. 

"Scott," the Sheriff says carefully. "We can't charge them for animal attacks." He looks at Derek. "How did this work when your family lived here?" 

Derek hesitates for a second, and Cora says bluntly, "We'd kill them." Derek does a little facial shrug, almost apologetic. 

"Joy," Lydia remarks, rubbing the fading pink line around her throat. Stiles winces in sympathy. 

"Well, the Hales don't own the town anymore," Scott says. "We don't have to live by their rules, and we don't have to kill—" 

"Scott," says Melissa, voice soft. "You're not killing anyone." She looks around at the adults. "We are." 

Chris raises his eyebrows, Derek's expression doesn't change, Stiles's dad grinds his teeth together, and Peter smirks like Christmas came early. 

"Mom—!" 

"Scott, honey, they already killed two high school students, and it's a miracle Stiles and Derek managed to survive today. You're my son, and if it takes killing them to make sure they don't get their hands on you, then that's what we'll do." 

"Maybe –maybe we can scare them away. We don't have to —you don't have to—" Scott says in weak frustration. 

"Scott—" she says, and Stiles is pretty sure he can see the moment her heart breaks. 

Isaac raises his hand. "I vote we kill'em." 

"Scott's right," Derek says. "We don't know for sure that we have to kill them. We can try scaring them first." 

"And how do you plan to do that?" Peter asks slowly, making no effort to hide exactly how unimpressed he is. 

"One by one, just like you said they'd do to us. Whatever Stiles did, it scared them—" 

"Woah, woah, woah," Stiles says, waving his hands at Derek to stop. "I am  _not_ doing that again." 

"What exactly did you do, anyway?" asks Isaac, rubbing the fresh bruise on his face that Stiles can only guess came from the fight that sent Scott running before Aiden tried to beat Stiles to death. He can hardly believe it was only two days ago. "Ethan completely freaked out. Everyone thought he was having a seizure." 

Stiles rubs the back of his neck, distinctly aware of everyone's eyes on him. "I, uh, it was a magic thing, I didn't really—" 

Derek takes pity on him–or gets annoyed with the interruption, but either way, Stiles is grateful when he starts talking. "That's not what I was trying to say. I meant, Aiden almost dying—" Stiles bites his lip and makes a face at the floor at this, "—made them realize we're dangerous—" that  _Stiles_  is dangerous, "—and maybe we can use that." 

"I don't want Stiles involved in this any more than he already is," his dad warns. 

"That's not what he means," Peter says quickly, even though Derek looks like he wants to argue. "He means we should beat each of them individually. Shove death in their face and send them running. It's a crude method, to be sure, but it could prove effective. For all of them except Deucalion." 

"It might be enough," Chris says. 

Despite Scott's grudging relief, Stiles has a feeling an alpha or two might "accidentally" die in the process. He doesn't think he'd mind if they did. 

They discuss how to get each of the remaining alphas alone and decide the twins will be easiest to start with if they can get them separated during the school day. It's a grim discussion, with Allison butting in halfway to say that adult or not, she's getting involved, and Stiles watches in mild fascination as she bulldozes her way through every protest. Soon enough, Scott, Cora, Lydia, and Isaac have gotten sucked into planning, too. 

Then the conversation moves onto Stiles being a new target, and he starts finding it more annoying than fascinating. 

He draws the line when Chris suggests he stay with the McCalls again. "Look, I finally got to sleep in my own bed again last night, and I don't even remember it. I'm not letting some stupid, power-hungry werewolves drive me out of my home. We've got mountain ash, dad's got wolfsbane bullets, I've got a stun gun and your knife –we'll be fine." 

"Stiles, maybe—" his dad starts to argue. 

"Please, for the sake of my mental health –we'll be fine," Stiles says, and he knows it's stupid to argue, knows he'd probably be safer staying with werewolves, but it's his  _home_. He looks at his unconvinced dad and pulls out his trump card. "You said I needed to learn control. Well, this is the only place I'll feel comfortable doing it. And until then –I don't think I'll even be safe from myself." 

His father sighs and runs a hand over his face. "Fine. We'll stay here." 

The discussion dwindles, and soon everyone begins to funnel out. Stiles grabs Lydia before she leaves. "Wolfsbane pepper spray. Think you can figure out how to make it?" 

She purses her lips like she's going to say no, then says, "Sure. Give me a few days and some—" 

"Actually," Allison says from behind her, almost apologetic, "we already have some in stock." 

Lydia glares. "And you didn't think to tell me before?" 

Allison winces. "I might have already given you a can. I switched it out with your usual one when you weren't looking. You didn't know about werewolves yet." 

Lydia looks displeased. And vaguely impressed. "Hmm." 

Allison turns back to Stiles. "I'll bring you a few cans Monday." 

"Great," Stiles says, not very enthusiastically. He could have used one, oh, yesterday. "That'd be –awesome. Thanks." 

Allison smiles slightly. 

"Wonderful," says Lydia, not sounding like it's wonderful at all. "Now, if you don't mind, I have a life to live." She tugs Allison out the door. 

Stiles assures Scott he'll be fine, and then it's just him and his dad. Finally. 

"Remember when I told you a couple years ago I'd teach you some self-defense and we never found the time?" his dad asks when he turns around. 

Stiles sighs, thinking of his mountain of unfinished homework. "Yeah." 

"I think we've found some time." 

 

o-o-o 

 

That night, Stiles's dad knocks himself out with painkillers, and Stiles grabs his stun gun, his phone, and a pinch of mountain ash from the thin line he's drawn around the house. He opens the drawer of his bedside table and eyes the knife he used to stab Jennifer when she tried to sacrifice him. He never gave it back to the Argents, but they never asked for it back, either. He needs to figure out where to keep it on him beside his pockets –maybe find some way to strap it to his arm or leg. He should probably learn how to properly use it, too. Maybe he can get Allison to teach him. 

He settles for his old Cub Scout pocket knife instead. He hadn't lasted very long in Cub Scouts, but at least he got something useful out of it. 

Peter texts him at ten pm that night, and Stiles leaves a note under his pillow just in case Peter kills him and dumps his body in a lake or something. He tiptoes down the hallway then trips down the stairs and curses when he hits the floor with a thud. Fortunately for him, the painkillers seem to be working, and his dad doesn't make a sound. If he knows his dad, he's been taking weaker painkillers like Ibuprofen during the day and saving the good stuff for night. He should be dead to the world for at least the next eight hours. 

He spots Peter's surprisingly inconspicuous hybrid parked by the curb outside his house and looks around. The tree tops dotting the neighborhood sway gently in the breeze, their leaves whispering against each other, and thick clouds hide the sliver of a crescent moon from sight. The harsh LED light from the neighbor's lamp post across the street casts pale white light on Peter's car, the glare preventing Stiles from seeing Peter's form through the windshield. 

Stiles inhales deeply, gathering himself, and heads over to Peter's car. He expects a stifled atmosphere and painful silence, but the first thing that happens when he tries to open the passenger door is the door staying firmly shut. 

Peter rolls down the window, and honestly, Stiles doesn't know why he expected Peter to be anything less than a talkative pain in the ass. "You know, Stiles," Peter says, leaning over to smirk at him. "It's rude not to knock." 

Stiles crosses his arms and scowls. "Seriously,  _Hannibal_? It's a car. Unlock the door." 

"…If you insist." 

Stiles gets in the car and does his best to sulk. Despite his effort, Peter draws him out of it. 

"I don't think the Nemeton's at  _Wendy's_ , Peter _…._ Why are we at Wendy's?" 

"Because I like their chicken nuggets better than McDonald's." 

Stiles stares. 

Peter looks over at him, dead serious, then breaks out into a grin. "Remember when you warded my apartment and nearly fainted?" 

"I did not nearly faint!" Peter raises his eyebrows, and Stiles looks away. "So maybe I got a little light-headed. But I was one hundred percent conscious." 

"Mmhm. Of course, Stiles. The point remains: I'm not lugging your unconscious body around the woods." 

Well, that's… good. Right? 

Peter taps his fingers against the steering wheel thoughtfully. "Now, your dead body—" 

"Ohmygod, stop talking. Stop the car. Let me out," Stiles says, sinking into his seat. 

Unfazed, Peter brakes and rolls down his window, looking over at Stiles. "What do you want to drink?" 

Stiles glares past him at the menu and searches for the most ridiculous option he can find. Unfortunately, Wendy's doesn't have many ridiculous options available. "A large chocolate frosty. With Reese's," Stiles adds out of spite. If Peter's paying, Stiles is gonna make the most of it. 

Peter's face lights up with unholy glee. Stiles decides not to ask.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally thought I was gonna be drunk when updating this, but nope, got stuck as DD. Sadness. 
> 
> Also my friends hit on our waiter for me. Literally, my favorite friend here said to me while she was totally drunk, "Do you think he's cute? Because I'll tell him if you do." And knowing she would totally do it, I said, "No, definitely not," even though the first thing I thought when I saw him was, "Ooo, cute." And then like, 5 minutes later, Drunk Friend #2 literally said to the waiter, "Kaitlyn [which is me] likes you! Kaitlyn thinks you're cute!" And everyone else was laughing because I was totally not blushing and sucking angrily at my water straw while the waiter was trying to figure out which one of us was the infatuated Kaitlyn, until finally I was like, "I never said that. But yeah." And then my favorite friend was like, "Wait, what did she say?" And Drunk Friend #2 repeated it loudly enough for the waiter to hear, and then he told us whoever says he's cute gets free drinks, and I'm just trying to disappear into my chair. Although later I saluted him and he did the snapping fingers thing back, so I think it's all good.
> 
> For now. Apparently my favorite friend left Drunk Friend #2's number with the tip, sooo we'll see if anything comes from that. 
> 
> And that is the story of my night. Hope you enjoyed this chapter. If you did, you'll like the next one even better because dear God, finally some really solid steter action. Hang in there, guys. It's worth it.


	7. Interference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> interference: the interruption of the line between an attacked piece and its defender by sacrificially interposing a piece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pfffffffft.
> 
>  
> 
> So much thanks to [edragoon](http://edragoon.tumblr.com/) for her feedback on this chapter. Seriously, she's the greatest.

"So does chloroform work on werewolves?" Stiles asks Peter as they trek through the woods. 

Peter pauses, looking back at Stiles. "Should I be worried?" 

Stiles shrugs. "I was thinking of using it on the twins. Scott wants to scare them, not kill them, but beating them almost to death might be risky, you know? They'll just heal unless we use wolfsbane, but that might kill them, and then Scott would be sad. So I'm thinking we could chloroform each of them, hack off a limb or something, and dump them on opposite sides of the country. Or, you know, as far as we can get with time to run away before it wears off." 

Peter snorts, mildly amused. "That would only make them angrier. They'd probably kill a few innocents, too, and then, what was it you said? Oh, right, Scott would be sad. And Heaven knows we wouldn't want that." He rolls his eyes. 

"Hey, have you seen the guy cry? It's devastating." 

Peter sighs heavily. 

"Speaking of which," Stiles says carefully. "Earlier today, dude, that thing with Scott? Not cool. I don't know what you're playing at, but, seriously—" 

Before Stiles can register what's happening, Peter shoves him back against a tree with a hand on his chest. "I'm not playing anymore, Stiles," he murmurs into Stiles's ear, the pressure from his splayed fingers heavy and warm through the thin cotton of Stiles's t-shirt. With Stiles holding his frosty out to the side and Peter holding a Wendy's bag in his free hand, the whole thing should feel too ridiculous to register as a threat, but somehow Peter makes it work. That's not what catches Stiles's attention, though. 

He stills and narrows his eyes at Peter. "'Anymore'?" 

Peter's eyes crinkle in delight as he pulls back and eases up on Stiles. "Not anymore." He curls a hand around a fistful of Stiles's t-shirt and tugs him close. "You have yourself to thank for that." He releases Stiles and leans back. 

For once, the manhandling doesn't overload Stiles's senses. It's what Peter has to say that he cares about. "What do you want, Peter?" he murmurs. 

Peter's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "What I want—" He grabs Stiles by the back of the neck and hauls him away from the tree. "—is for you to keep learning." He releases Stiles's neck only to wrap his arm around his shoulders in a facsimile of companionship, dragging Stiles through the woods again in a slightly different direction than before. "And for that we need to keep moving." 

More interested in seeing what he can glean from Peter than his safety, Stiles lets himself be pulled along. With so little moonlight available, it's difficult to read Peter's face, but Stiles can try. "What else do you want?" he asks. 

Peter glances at him, his fingers tightening around Stiles's shoulder. "What do you think?" 

Stiles tilts his head an inch to peer closer, but Peter's expression gives nothing away. 

"That wasn't a rhetorical question. Figure it out," Peter says, taking his arm away and tucking his hand in his pocket. 

Well, all right then. Stiles has thought about Peter's big ol' masterplan before, but he never thought Peter might  _want_ him to figure it out. "Well, clearly you want attention. Narcissist," Stiles mutters under his breath, keeping his face straight for a second before meeting Peter's eyes with a smirk. 

Peter side-eyes him, and Stiles's smirk grows before fading away as he thinks. He tests the waters with "You wanna be an alpha again?" and Peter just watches him. "But not badly enough to kill Derek." When Peter doesn't give anything away, Stiles raises his eyebrows. "Look at you, being all moral." Stiles winks and gives Peter an embellished thumbs up. "Good job." 

Peter keeps staring. 

Stiles rolls his shoulders and exhales harshly out of his nose. He watches Peter carefully, any hint of a smile disappearing. "I hope you're not waiting for Scott to become a true alpha," he says, voice slipping into a lower, huskier register. "Trying to steal that away wouldn't go well for you." 

Peter smiles gleefully. "Why, Stiles, are you threatening me?" 

Stiles doesn't so much as blink. "Yeah." 

Peter's smile grows sharper at the edges, and he leans in. "Then you'll be happy to know killing Scott isn't part of the plan." He nods slightly in casual acknowledgment. "Not any longer." 

Stiles narrows his eyes. He can feel the Nemeton's presence tingling in the back of his mind. They're getting closer. "How about Allison? Chris?" He licks his lips. "Gerard?" 

Peter cocks an eyebrow. "Would you really mind if I killed Gerard?" 

Stiles holds his breath, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around himself. He clenches his teeth and looks down at the dirt, knowing his body's given him away before he can protest. 

"Oh," Peter croons, stepping in front of Stiles and stopping him in his tracks. "I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?" 

Stiles grimaces and tries to duck around him only to freeze mid-step when Peter's hand snaps up inches in front of his face. Stiles balks, and Peter slows his movement, his too close hand stirring the air just enough to tickle the skin of Stiles's temples. He grazes a knuckle down Stiles's cheek. Stiles holds himself stock-still, Peter's caress an indelible burn on his nerves. "What are—?" 

"I remember the bruises, you know," Peter murmurs. "I know who put them there." Peter's eyes trace over Stiles's face, following the path of phantom aches and pains. 

Stiles swallows. "I never told anyone what happened." 

Peter hums, his calloused palm warm against Stiles's face, and hooks his thumb under Stiles's jaw. "You tried to wash his scent away, didn't you? So dear little Scott wouldn't know. I remember." Stiles grimaces and tries to pull away, but Peter's hand slips to the nape of his neck and holds him in place. "Admirable," Peter says, and Stiles stops trying to move away and lets Peter's thumb stroke the arch of his neck. "But you don't have to lie to me." 

Peter's eyes are too knowing, too gentle, too furious. Stiles turns his face away, his cheeks burning as Peter's palm shifts against the skin of his neck with the movement, hot and comforting like a brand. Stiles has to fight the urge to relax back into it.

"No, I don't think you'd mind at all if I killed Gerard," Peter purrs in satisfaction. His voice rolls over Stiles, and Stiles can feel his pulse jump. "You'd love if I returned every bruise with interest. If I broke his bones and made him bleed. You'd like to watch him beg, wouldn't you?"

Stiles's breath shudders out of his lungs as he meets Peter's eyes. "Blood makes me squeamish," he informs him, mouth twisting cruelly. "I even fainted when Scott got his tattoo." 

"Yeah, but you care about Scott. Gerard, however…." Peter returns Stiles's cruel smile with his own. "Well, I have it on good authority that you can be very vindictive." 

And that –somehow that makes Stiles smile. A borderline hysterical, brittle chuckle escapes his lips. He's discussing torturing and murdering Gerard Argent with Peter Hale. This is a conversation that he's having. "If you're so eager to murder Gerard, why haven't you done it already?" 

"I'm basking in his pain." 

"…Yeah…. All right." Stiles can be honest with himself. He's kinda basking, too. However…. "That whole—" Stiles waves his hands around "—retribution thing, though –yeah, no. That's not for me." 

Peter smiles wickedly. "You know what I just heard?" 

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Stiles mutters, pushing past Peter. The skin of his neck tingles from the lingering slide of Peter's hand. 

Peter snickers shamelessly and takes his place by Stiles's side. He takes Stiles by the shoulder and aims him slightly to the right. "That way." 

Stiles grinds his teeth together and keeps walking. 

 

o-o-o

  

Stiles sits cross-legged on the Nemeton in front of the tiny sapling. He can feel power flooding through him whenever he touches the leaf, but it overwhelms him the moment he makes physical contact with it, forcing him to tear himself away. "Fuck," he snaps. He groans wordlessly and wrenches at his hair. He glares over at Peter, sitting against a tree trunk with a book in one hand and a fucking chicken nugget in the other. "How do you do it? Any of it?" He doesn't have an Allison, and Peter doesn't, either. There has to be some other sort of anchor. 

Peter doesn't even look away from his book. "Stop thinking of it as separate from yourself. Magic isn't just a tool for you now. It's part of you, and you're part of it. Take your time. You can't force it." 

Stiles looks back at the tiny sapling growing right out of the dead tree stump. He's pretty sure baby trees aren't supposed to grow like that. 

He plants his hands on his knees and takes a deep breath.  _Okay_.  _We are one_   _and all that BS._  He reaches out, brushes the finger pads of his index and middle finger against the underside of the single leaf, forces himself to stay put, and lets the life of it flow over him. 

His skin tingles and power thrums through his veins. Heat pools in the tips of his fingers, his toes, behind his eyes, his solar plexus, his gut. It's not just thrumming through him, he reminds himself, it  _is_ him. He lets the warmth spread, lets it wash over him and reel him in. 

"Stiles." 

He sinks into it and closes his eyes. He can feel himself stretching on and on, spreading out through Beacon Hills, and even though his eyes are closed, he can  _see._

"Stiles." 

He can see the life pulsing through the forest, can feel it pulsing through him. It's like a siren call, drawing him in deeper, deeper into the flesh and bone and blood of every creature until it drags him down through the dirt and clay and water, and Stiles is all of it, is the heart of every single, vibrating atom. 

"Stiles." 

It all melts together and pulls him in until he's cold and hot and nothing all at once. He can feel something weaving through him, a thread of life, brittle and rotten, tainting him. It twists through the cold-hot-nothing of him and buries itself in his heart— 

"Stiles!" Claws dig into the meat of his shoulders right above his shoulder blades, yanking him out of his trance. 

Lungs heaving, Stiles tears his hand away from the tiny green stalk of doom. "What—" he wheezes. 

"Breathe." Peter leans over him, examining his face. "This might hurt a little." And before he can register Peter's warning, Peter's prying his claws out of Stiles's shoulders. 

Pain sears through Stiles's skin, grounding him and making him groan. "Ah—shit. What are you—" Stiles shudders as Peter pulls away. Stiles hunches in on himself, reaching behind to feel the backs of his stinging shoulders. He brushes his torn shirt and winces in pain as his fingers graze bloodied skin. He wipes his hand off on the knee of his jeans. 

He watches incredulously as Peter pulls a white handkerchief out of his back pocket and wipes his hands off. Under other circumstances, Stiles would probably make fun of him for it, but right now he's a little preoccupied trying to clamp down on his rising panic. "What—what just happened?" Stiles wraps his arms around his torso, cold/hot aftershocks shuddering through him. 

Peter walks behind him and tugs off Stiles's open, plaid button-down before Stiles can protest. "Hey—" Stiles hisses as Peter presses the handkerchief down against the claw marks on his right shoulder. Stiles's t-shirt is ruined. 

"You followed my advice a little too well," Peter says. Stiles watches over his shoulder as Peter, keeping one hand on Stiles's shoulder, picks up the half-finished milkshake sitting on the other side of the stump and shoves it at Stiles's chest until Stiles accepts it. "Eat. Calm down. Then try again, and remember that it's only a  _part_ of you, not all of you." 

Stiles spins his spoon around, shifting the mostly melted ice cream around. "I don't think I should—" 

"You're already in too deep. It's  _yours_ now, Stiles. Own it." Peter peels the handkerchief away from Stiles's shoulder, folds it in half, and presses it down against the other set of claw marks. Stiles grimaces at the sting. 

"Or what?" 

He can feel Peter's body heat as he leans in. "What do you think?" Peter mutters in his ear, and Stiles doesn't have a response for that which he'd be willing to admit aloud. 

Peter doesn't stop pressing down on his shoulder until Stiles starts eating half-heartedly. His appetite makes itself known as soon as the sweet, half-melted ice cream touches his tongue, and he hurries to eat the rest. 

Beside him, Peter airs out and carefully folds the bloody handkerchief, making Stiles snort. 

Peter's eyes flick between the handkerchief and Stiles, lips twitching upward. "I take pride in my personal hygiene," he says, tucking the handkerchief in his back pocket. He plucks at the shoulders of Stiles's t-shirt, making Stiles hiss and flinch away as the thin cotton peels away from his ruined skin. 

Stiles grimaces and tries not to twitch at the touch. "Does that mean you brought hand sanitizer?" Fingers grazing Stiles's skin, Peter pulls the collar of Stiles's shirt down his shoulder to examine the marks with a frown. "Because I've been getting so many bad touch vibes from you that I think I'd like to bathe in it." Stiles regrets the words as soon as they slip out his mouth. He'd hoped if he never addressed Peter's skeeviness out loud he could pretend it was all in his head. But too late now. 

Peter stills, knuckles still pressed to Stiles's skin, his eyes flicking to Stiles's face. "Do you mind it?" 

" _Yes._ " Stiles grinds out. He minds it a lot. 

The corners of Peter's eyes crinkle mischievously, lips curling upward. "Do you like it?" 

Stiles can't say yes, can't say no. He can lie to everyone around him, but he can't lie to himself, and honestly, despite all his protests and all his consternation, Stiles knows he's been basking in the attention, savoring every lingering touch. "You would just love that, wouldn't you?" he snaps a second too late. 

Peter smiles, bright and sharp, hand dragging over the unmarked curve of Stiles's shoulder and slipping away. Stiles holds his breath. "Keep trying," Peter says slowly. "And don't make me have to pull you out of it again. I won't be nearly so gentle." He walks back over to his tree and scoops his book off the ground. 

If stinging claw marks that won't heal for months count as gentle, Stiles doesn't want to know how Peter defines rough. 

Exhaling, Stiles watches Peter out of the corner of his eye as he pulls a French fry out of his bag. Stiles looks down at his milkshake. There's only a swallow's worth left, so he chugs it down and sets the empty cup down at the base of the stump. Maybe the Nemeton will accept sacrifices of fast food instead of dead people. Who knows? 

He breathes and stares at the sapling. It's so thin and small he can hardly see it in the dark. He could kill it so easily, rip it out and burn it, maybe spray it with weedkiller. 

He shifts, his legs cramping and butt aching, and his shirt scratches against his torn skin, making it burn. 

Pain. Peter had brought him back with pain. 

But in the beginning Derek had tried teaching Scott to control himself with pain ("He broke my arm, Stiles!"), and there's no way Stiles is living by Derek's rules. That's just asking for trouble. 

Stiles doesn't have an Allison, but he does have a father. But if he makes his father his anchor, then what will he do when his father dies? He can't deal with mourning  _and_ going power-crazy. Seriously, look how Peter handled it. 

Stiles needs a purpose. He's good at things when he has a purpose. He has to  _do something._  

Fuck it. With a quiet groan of frustration, he touches the leaf. 

Power smashes down his barriers and rushes through him, rich and furious. White spots flash in his vision, but he doesn't close his eyes this time. He knows he has to do something. 

He can feel the forest pulsing with life around him, the plants around him thick pillars of it, churning like molasses. He can feel animals around him in indistinct, vibrating little patches of life dotting the forest, the energy of them bleeding into the quivering masses of insects spread throughout the forest like a blanket. 

He has to.... 

Death looms over all of them, its roots planted deep within each of them, some more so than others. It winds through the life surrounding him, hugging it intimately, and it's not so terrifying like this. 

Do something. He has to do something…. 

He blinks owlishly, distantly noticing that his head's turning to look at the approaching werewolf. Drunk on power, he flings up a sluggish hand towards the werewolf, signaling him to stop. The werewolf hesitates, squinting. "Just—" his lips struggle to shape the word. "Wait," he says slowly, mouthing it more than saying it. 

The werewolf waits, watching him carefully. 

He can feel the werewolf, too, now that he's focusing. He's a fierce, gnarled shock of life, sharp around the edges and tightly contained, death a heavy line binding it all together. He –Peter wants him to do something. 

Stiles wants to do something. Stiles always wants to do something, and this time he can. 

His thoughts move sluggishly through the mire, some of them dissipating before he can wrap his mind around them, but he tries, he  _tries_ so hard to think, to remember. He tries to feel his body around him, to remember that he's still in it. A dull pain tingles at the edge of his senses, and he latches onto it and follows it back to his stinging, bloody shoulders. His awareness spreads to his heaving lungs and his beating heart and his cold-touched skin. 

Stiles knows how to levitate things. He remembers learning how to do it at home while his father slept across the hallway. He failed every time, but this time he has so much magic pulsing through him, rolling off him in waves, that he knows there's no way he can fail now. 

There's a pebble on the ground several feet in front of him. Stiles focuses on it and wills it to rise, twisting his hands like the book had said. Hot, slick force runs through him and wraps around the pebble, and it soars upward till it hovers above the treetops, along with the thousand other pebbles and rocks within at least a hundred foot radius Stiles hadn't noticed until now. 

Mouth falling open, Stiles stares up at the rocks, pebbles, and dust floating around him at various heights. He can feel himself holding each of them up, magic a low tingle running from his gut to his fingertips to the rocks around him. "Woah," he mumbles. The sound of his own voice startles him, and the rocks shudder midair. 

"Stiles," Peter says warily. 

Stiles blinks at Peter, and all the rocks tumble to the ground with a series of thuds and billowing dust. Stiles yanks his hand away from the sapling, and the world surges back into him in stark relief, leaving his body cool and shockingly empty. "Dude," he says, staring down at his hands. 

He clenches his hands into fists just to feel his muscles move, then opens them. "Wow," he says. Biting down on a grin, he looks up at Peter, who's watching him carefully. "So I'm totally doing that again." 

Peter's mouth curves into a thin, pleased smirk like all the pieces are falling into place, and, honestly, so what if they are? Stiles doesn't really give a shit. 

Stiles does it again and again and again until he can lift each pebble individually to the specific height he wants. He rides high on the rush of it. It's even better than the adrenaline he's become so accustomed to because for once it isn't followed by pain or fear or loss. For once, he feels strong. 

Then he decides to stop using the Nemeton as a crutch, and everything falls apart. 

Hours later, Stiles flings a metaphorical fist at the walls of steel surrounding the knot of power trapped in his gut and flops back against the tree stump, head hanging over the edge and his legs still crossed. "Nothing is happening. Literally  _nothing._ " He is a failure. 

"It's three AM," Stiles hears Peter say. "Must be long past your bedtime," he drawls. 

Stiles rolls onto his stomach and props himself up on his elbows to glare at Peter. "You know what, zombiewolf?" he asks, totally prepared to improvise something witty that will destroy Peter and anything he might say in retaliation. "…Screw you." He groans and drops forward, pillowing his face on his arms. 

Peter sighs, and even with his eyes closed, Stiles can practically hear him rolling his eyes as he gets to his feet. Stiles listens as he pads over to him and stops a foot away from his head. "Come on, Stiles." 

"No," Stiles grumbles. "M'sleeping here. Bye." 

"You're sleeping on the Nemeton," Peter says, bemused. 

"I'm gonna absorb its power via osmosis." 

A muffled snort of laughter above Stiles makes him look up just in time to see an actual, honest-to-God, definitely non-malicious smile disappearing from Peter's face. It is, to be frank, one of the most terrifying things Stiles has ever seen. 

He pries himself away from the tree stump and staggers to his feet. "Lead the way, Darth Sidious," Stiles says dryly, gesturing grandly in the direction they came. 

Peter rolls his eyes and starts walking. "Please, I'm much more attractive than Darth Sidious." 

Stiles blinks and eyes Peter up and down. His cheeks burn as he nods slightly in acknowledgment, but fuck it, Peter's right. What a dick. "A plague victim would be more attractive than him." 

 

o-o-o

  

As much as he'd like to frustrate himself to death by spending his entire Sunday trying to unlock his center, Stiles spends most of it doing homework instead since he actually does intend to live long enough to go to college. To further improve his day, his dad spends the evening teaching him how to fall without breaking his tailbone. 

So. Many. Bruises. So many. 

And to complete his day, Peter picks him up at ten thirty again for an exciting round of absolutely fucking nothing. 

By the time it's one AM, Stiles is about ready to throw a tantrum and pound his fists against the stupid, dumbass tree stump. 

He paces around the stump and wrenches on his hair. "Why is this so fucking difficult? I've done this before. I didn't imagine it! Levitating a goddamn rock should be nothing compared to sucking the life out of a werewolf. Literally nothing! So why the  _fuck_ —" Stiles kicks the stump "—can't—" another kick "—I—" kick "—do this!?" Peter yanks him away from it before he can kick it again. 

"You need to relax." 

Stiles darts out of Peter's grip and starts pacing again. Peter probably just wants to shove French fries at him until he shuts up, and Stiles isn't having it. "No, you know what I need to do? I need to set it on fire!" 

Peter wrinkles his nose. "I think you've set enough living things on fire, Stiles." 

"No! No, I haven't!" Stiles jabs his finger at the tree. "That thing is a menace sending out some serious bad mojo. We have to get rid of it. Maybe if we do I'll be able to levitate some stupid rocks." 

Peter shakes his head at Stiles. "You're not making any sense." 

"No, I totally am. If we get rid of the Nemeton, all that energy is gonna have to go somewhere, and that somewhere's gonna be me, and then I'll—" Stiles freezes. "Fuck, I'm an idiot." Peter gives him a look. Stiles holds a hand out for Peter to stop even though he isn't really doing anything. Yet. "Just –just stay put," Stile says absently as he paces around the Nemeton. 

He can feel the power of it buzzing all around him. "I've been thinking about this all wrong." He steps over a root as he looks around the small clearing. "It's not like my dad's gun. I can't pick it up and set it down whenever I want, and I don't have to 'unlock my center' or open myself up or whatever." He spots a lumpy, baseball-sized rock laying on the ground at the edge of the clearing. It has dirt caked around its edges from when Stiles ripped it out of the ground earlier. "I don't have to beat down any walls because –because they're not walls. They're magic. It's been there the whole time." Stiles finishes his circle around the stump and stops beside Peter, grinning at him like a lunatic. Peter watches him intently. 

"I'm not supposed to fight to access it," Stiles says, half to himself. He focuses on the rock and twists his hand, willing it to move. It shudders, and Stiles can feel the walls around the knot in his gut bend and pulse. He urges them on, pushing them up around his lungs to his shoulders and down his arms through his hands, and the rock lifts off the ground and smacks into his waiting palm. "It's already mine," he says smugly, jittery with excitement. 

"…There you go." Peter smiles and wheels Stiles around to face him. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" he murmurs, hands curling around Stiles hips. 

Stiles drums his fingers against the rock. He can feel the magic running through him, a low tingling in his veins and a humming force in his gut. He twists his free hand and sends the rock flying behind him. It hits the ground with a thump and a rustling skid, and Peter's hands tighten around the crests of his hips. Stiles holds back a smirk. "So floating rocks turn you on, huh?" He points at Peter. "That's a little weird." 

Peter catches his hand and pulls it up to his mouth, making Stiles swallow. He watches raptly as Peter nuzzles the underside of his wrist, his breath on Stiles's skin making it tingle. Stiles's fingers twitch and his breath falters as he watches Peter eye the pale skin in front of him. "What—" Stiles starts to gasp, but then Peter's lips latch onto the inside of Stiles's wrist, and all the air disappears from Stiles's lungs. 

Slow and languid, Peter mouths at Stiles's skin, his dry lips soon giving way to a warm, wet heat that makes Stiles's eyelashes flutter and his head dip forward as he tries to focus, the jittering nerves he felt a minute ago fading into a lazy warmth at the base of his spine. Peter sucks and coaxes a tiny sound out from the back of Stiles's throat. It startles Stiles into coming back to himself a little, and he straightens as he tries to regain his composure, hand twitching in Peter's firm grasp. 

Stiles knows he should pull away, he does, but God, he  _wants_. He wants so badly to pay Peter back for all the stupid sexual frustration he's caused, wants to return every lingering touch, every weighted word. He wants to push Peter as much as Peter's pushed him, and it's all Stiles can do to hold himself back from smashing their lips together. 

Blunt teeth grazing Stiles's racing pulse, Peter pulls away just enough for his lips to keep brushing Stiles's wrist as he murmurs, "I'm glad I didn't bite you." He releases Stiles's hand and tugs their hips together before Stiles even registers his hand falling away from Peter's face. Peter dips his face down to suck and nip at Stiles's throat, and Stiles's hand lands on the nape of Peter's neck. Despite all his better judgment, Stiles drags Peter closer, his other hand flying to Peter's waist to clench around his stupidly thin, stupidly body-hugging v-neck. 

Peter sucks at the corner of Stiles's jaw so hard that it stings and makes Stiles hiss. Peter soothes the mark with his tongue and pulls away enough to meet Stiles's hooded eyes with his own. He hums in approval. "You bruise so nicely like this." 

Stiles's mouth falls open in consternation. "You—" 

"Do you think about it?" Peter breathes in deeply, leaning in to whisper in Stiles's ear. "About my mouth on yours?" Stiles's fingers clench against Peter as his hands snake under Stiles's shirt, rough and hot against Stiles's skin, leaving trails of warmth as they glide upward. "Do you remember how it felt?" He sucks Stiles's earlobe into his mouth. 

Stiles chokes on a whimper. "Oh, fuck," he breathes. 

Peter's teeth sink into his earlobe, sending little jolts of almost-pain straight to Stiles's cock. Peter releases it. "Stiles?" 

"Yeah," Stiles breathes like he's condemning himself. "Yeah, I remember." 

Peter's wet lips slot against his like they belong there, nipping at Stiles's lower lip before sliding against it, and Stiles plunges into the kiss, his lips moving clumsily against Peter's until he remembers what he's doing. He presses into it and speeds up, pulling Peter closer, and maybe Stiles is going to Hell, but God, he's in for a ride. 

Peter's hands graze over his nipples, making Stiles's breath hitch, and Peter takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into Stiles's mouth. It's almost a relief when their tongues tangle together and Peter angles Stiles's head just so. Stiles winds his fingers into Peter's hair and holds him close, his other hand sliding down to squeeze Peter's ass, making him grunt. Encouraged, Stiles grins against his lips and surges forward to give as good as he gets, nipping and sucking at Peter's lips until his back hits a tree, his head saved from impact by Peter's hand. 

Stiles grunts in mild pain and tugs Peter's head away to snatch a much needed breath of air. "Fuck," he gasps, voice hitching as Peter mouths at his neck again. Pulling away with a smirk, Peter slides his hands down Stiles's torso to undo his belt buckle. "Woah, wait—" Stiles pants, hand falling away from Peter's neck to grab him by the wrist. 

Peter stops, watching Stiles impatiently. "Don't you have to wake up early tomorrow? Well, actually, today." 

Stiles knocks his head back against the tree and groans. The last thing he wants to think about right now is school. Peter seems to take that as some sort of assent and works on Stiles's belt again. "Then we'll have to make this fast." 

Peter sinks to his knees, and Stiles's eyes go wide as his dick jumps in his pants. "Oh, shit, you're gonna—" 

Peter unzips his jeans and looks up through his eyelashes, his usual smirk tugging at his lips. "Problem?" 

 _Yes_ , Stiles knows he should say, but Peter presses down with the palm of his hand like the fucking asshole he is, and Stiles shakes his head. "No, no problem at all, just, God, Peter, just—" 

Peter cuts him off by dragging his pants down far enough for him to mouth at Stiles's dick through his boxers. "Oh, fuck, come on, come on, please—" Shit. Stiles barely resists the urge to smack himself in the face. He said please. Peter's never gonna let that go, fucking shit. "Just hurry up, asshole!" Stiles snaps. 

Peter pulls away with a shit-eating grin and pulls Stiles's boxers down. "Are you sure?" he asks oh so innocently. "I wouldn't want to take advantage of you, after all—" 

Stiles winds both hands through Peter's hair and tries to shove his face down onto his dick, but Peter doesn't budge. "Oh my God," Stiles groans. "I'm sure. I'm three thousand percent sure. I'm so damn sure that if you don't fucking suck me already I'm gonna jerk off all over your—" 

Peter sucks him down in one long take, hands shoving Stiles's hips back against the tree, and God, that's gonna hurt in the morning, but Peter's mouth is so hot and wet around his dick Stiles can't bring himself to give a shit. Head bobbing up and down in Stiles's peripheral vision, Peter sucks until Stiles's knees threaten to buckle, and no matter how much Stiles babbles and tugs at his hair, he doesn't change his pace. 

This is it, Stiles thinks. Peter Hale, serial killing zombiewolf extraordinaire with a flare for the dramatic, is finally gonna kill him. Peter's gonna suck Stiles's brains out through his dick, and Stiles is gonna like it. He's doomed. 

At any other time, Stiles would be mortified to find himself begging with his naked ass pressed up against a tree and his pants and boxers shoved half-way down his thighs, but right now all he can do is try to stay standing while Peter licks around his straining cock before sucking it down again. 

The pressure in Stiles's groin mounts until he has to squeeze his eyes shut. He pants, words tumbling out of his mouth. His brain-to-mouth filter was never particularly good, and now it's completely shot. His hands tighten in Peter's hair. "God, don't stop. Fuck. If all it takes to turn you on is a bit of magic, then fuck, it's yours, Christ, anything for your mouth, I'll do whatever you want, holy shit—" 

Stiles moans as Peter's fingers slide down between his cheeks to skim over Stiles's hole before dragging up to stroke his balls. Peter hums in approval, sending jolts up Stiles's body. The bastard's probably getting off on finally shutting Stiles up, he bets. Stiles chokes as Peter hollows his cheeks and slides up to suck on the head of his dick, swirling his tongue around the head, and fuck, Stiles could die happy right now. Peter's tongue teases at the slit, and Stiles breaks, abdomen clenching as he comes with a groan. He hunches over as he spills into Peter's mouth, fingers tightening in Peter's hair, eyes squeezing shut. 

Spent, he leans back against the tree, his thighs quivering and the sensitive skin of his ass scratching against tree bark. "Fuck," he breathes, opening his eyes. Leaves whisper against each other above him, and white spots fog his vision as aftershocks shudder through him. 

The sound of shifting cloth draws his attention back to Peter, who's dabbing Stiles's come off his mouth with that goddamn handkerchief, and God, Stiles is never going to be able to look at any sort of white, cloth napkin again without getting hard, is he? 

Peter stands up, eyeing Stiles up and down in ridiculously smug satisfaction, and it hits Stiles like a punch to his solar plexus that Peter Hale just gave him a blowjob. Peter Hale, the psychotic werewolf who turned Scott, tried to kill Stiles, used Lydia, and probably has some evil master plan in the works that'll get them all killed or worse –that Peter Hale—the one who Stiles still fucking  _owes_ —just gave him a blowjob. In the dead of night. In the woods. By the Nemeton. And Stiles let him.

Stiles buries his face in his hands and groans. "Oh, fuck." 

Peter snorts, and Stiles feels his pants slide down half an inch. He jerks them up, hissing as they slide over his smarting ass, and scrambles to put himself back together, avoiding Peter's gaze like the plague. 

As Stiles finishes buckling his pants on, Peter sighs, and Stiles panics, thinking he's waiting for Stiles to reciprocate. His eyes dart up to meet Peter's, flicking back and forth between his amused eyes, his glistening lips, and his jean-covered crotch. After a moment of watching Stiles suffer, Peter rolls his eyes and says, "Come on. Let's get you home before you have a heart attack." He swipes his Wendy's bag off the ground and starts sauntering away. 

Stiles blinks and stumbles after him, fighting the urge to slump to the ground in a puddle of goo. "So that was –what—" Fuck everything. Stiles should just keep his mouth shut. 

Peter side-eyes him. "Do me a favor and save your identity crisis for some time when I'm not around." 

Stiles glares at him. "You know what, fuck you. I'm not having an identity crisis." He crosses his arms. 

Peter somehow manages to roll his eyes without actually rolling them. 

Half an hour of stifling silence later, despite all his misgivings, Stiles really can't help himself. "…So does this mean I'm attractive to gay guys?" 

"What?" Peter's expression is  _gold_. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments let me know I'm not writing for an empty void of silence and disappointment. Also, come onnnn, they did the thing, you know you wanna shout for joy. Let me hear it!
> 
> Edit as of 10/26/14: this [fanart](http://voidspeaking.tumblr.com/post/101027638094/iinuktaii-russian-teenwolf-reverse#notes) made me think of think of this chapter. It's so pretty, omg. The shading is amazing.


	8. Exposed King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> exposed king: a king lacking pawns to shield it from enemy attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for sexual abuse of a minor because Kate Argent exists and victim blaming because Derek and Peter exist
> 
> Again, much thanks to [edragoon](http://edragoon.tumblr.com/) for feedback :)

Stiles spends most of that Monday staving off low-grade panic born of mortification and tempered by exhaustion. He keeps expecting Scott to ask, "Hey, Stiles, why do you smell like Peter Hale?" or "Stiles, why do you look so stiff?" or "Hey, best bro who shares everything with me, what's up with that hickey at the corner of your jaw?" but Scott seems a little preoccupied himself, clenching and unclenching his right hand, so Stiles finally leans over and asks, "You okay, dude?" 

Scott's mouth flattens into a thin line as he rubs his left hand over his right. "Yeah, I just…." He looks up at Stiles. "Allison and I visited Gerard yesterday." At Stiles's 'what the fuck' face, Scott explains, "I wanted to know if he knew anything about alpha packs specifically. I took his pain away in exchange for information, and it was—" he shakes his head. "It hurt a lot." 

"Well, he is sorta dying, isn't he?" 

"I dunno," Scott says, eyeing his hand. "He said his cancer's being cured, but the black bile-stuff isn't going away." 

Stiles leans forward. "You think he's getting better?" 

Scott shakes his head. "I dunno." 

Stiles's fingers itch with the urge to research, but even if he did have his laptop in front of him, he doesn't think Google would have much to offer. "You check with Deaton?" 

Scott shakes his head and opens his mouth to speak just as a piece of chalk hits Stiles in the forehead. 

"Stilinski!" Finstock snaps. "What did I just say?" 

"Uh," Stiles sputters, shaking his head. "I get an A in the class?" 

"Ahahaha," Finstock literally says, totally unamused. "No. Twenty extra pushups during today's cooldown is what you get." 

Stiles groans. "Seriously?" 

Finstock points at him. "You want more?" 

Stiles shakes his head and picks up his pen like the dutiful student he occasionally tries to be. "No, sir," he mutters. 

 

o-o-o

 

They pass the twins in the hallway once, and Aiden actually stiffens at the sight of Stiles. Ethan steps in front of him, eyes flashing red. 

Stiles isn't sure how to react. He's not used to anyone being afraid of him, let alone alpha werewolves. The only one who ever took him seriously was Peter. 

Scott hovers at his side, and Stiles stares at the twins without saying a word. They don't do anything. No one's ready to make their move yet. 

 

o-o-o 

 

He's halfway through Jennifer's class when he remembers Deaton and Derek aren't their only sources of werewolf lore and Stiles just happens to have Peter's number. 

He's just finished texting Peter about Gerard's symptoms when Jennifer calls him out for having his phone out. How she even knew in the first place since her back was to the class the entire time, Stiles doesn't know. She probably did something evil. 

"I'll take that, Stiles," she says as she walks over. She holds her hand out. "You can have it back after class." And oh, that's just cheating. 

Stiles narrows his eyes and contemplates simply saying no, but Jennifer's challenging eyebrow raise convinces him otherwise. He locks his phone and slaps it into her palm with a particularly angry "Fine," earning himself some concerned looks from his classmates. 

She smiles placidly and thanks him, and Stiles knows she's up to something. Sure enough, when he stays after class to pick it up, Scott hovering by his side, she hesitates before giving it back. "Is Derek okay?" 

Stiles scowls. "Why do you care?" 

"Why wouldn't I? I didn't have to date him, you know. I thought we—" she cuts herself off and shrugs, mouth tight, eyes soft and regretful. 

"Did you hear that? That was the sound of my heart breaking," Stiles says. He holds his hand out expectantly. "Can I have my phone back now?" 

Jennifer hands it back, mouth twisted in what has to be totally fake remorse, and Stiles turns to leave, only to be held back by Scott. He sighs as Scott says to Jennifer, "He's fine." 

Jennifer sighs in relief. "I checked his loft this weekend and found out the alphas had been there. I didn't see any blood, but I still wasn't sure if he—" She shrugs again. "I made sure his loft was safe, just in case he wants to go back. I think they cracked his table, unless that was him, but other than that, it should be the same as he left it. If he wants to go back, he can." She looks down and bites her lip. "I added some protections. It should be safe." 

Stiles looks at her askance. "'Protections'?" 

Jennifer meets his gaze carefully. "Some runes and charms. Nothing complicated. I can teach you if you want." 

"No, thanks," Stiles says dryly. "I think I'm better off learning on my own." 

Jennifer looks guilty and sad, but Stiles isn't fooled. He remembers how hungry she looked after he nearly killed Aiden. He's already got one devil on his shoulder; he doesn't need another. 

"Why are you doing this?" Scott asks. 

"I never wanted to hurt Derek. I just want him to be safe and happy."

Stiles's eyebrows shoot up, a mocking grin tugging at his lips. "So what, is this you trying to get back into Derek's pants? Because I gotta say—" 

Jennifer scowls. "That's not it. I told you—" her voice drops to a hushed whisper as a freshman scuttles into the classroom and tries to take a seat at the back of the room without drawing attention to herself. "I'm on your side now," Jennifer continues. "Consider this a peace offering." 

"We'll tell him," Scott says firmly. "But if you're lying to us," he says lowly, and wow, Stiles is so turned on right now. "The deal's off." 

Jennifer nods and looks up as more students enter the room. "Okay." 

Scott starts to pull Stiles away, but Stiles holds back. "Yeah, we're gonna need late passes," he tells Jennifer. 

"Right," she says absently, pulling them out of her desk. 

"Actually," Stiles leans in and says as she starts filling them out. A smirk plasters itself across Stiles's face as Scott watches on in befuddled amusement. "We're gonna need a lot of late passes. Signed and undated." Beside him, Scott grins. Point for Stiles. 

Stiles expects some sort of frown or admonishment, but Jennifer chuckles under her breath and looks up at Stiles with a twinkle in her eye. She hands Stiles and Scott two passes and says, "I'll get them to you tomorrow," and that, Stiles thinks, is the real Jennifer. 

Assuming she doesn't betray them, die, get fired, or skedaddle out of town, he thinks they might be able to make this work. 

 

o-o-o 

 

"Damn, she went all out," Stiles says, crouching down to look at the tiny, barely noticeable runes carved into the bottom centimeter of the wall. They line the entire loft. 

"Do you think it's all genuine?" Derek asks from the doorway, Cora hovering behind him. 

Stiles shrugs. "…Hell if I know. I recognize, like, five of them," he says, standing back up. "But so far nothing bad's happened. That's a good sign, right?" 

Derek sighs and steps into the loft. Stiles flails at him. "Dude, what are you doing?" He looks around the room, half expecting lightning to strike Derek where he stands. Stiles groans as Cora follows Derek in, sliding the door shut behind her. 

Derek arches an eyebrow as he walks towards Stiles. "I'm fine. She wants to hurt the alpha pack, not me." 

Stiles makes a face. "Dude, you really gotta stop trusting your girlfriends so much." 

Cora frowns behind him. 

Derek looks away, the muscle in his jaw jumping, and Stiles would seriously feel guilty, except  _it's totally true_. 

"We're not done making sure it's safe," Derek says tiredly. 

"'We'? What, is Deaton coming over?" Stiles glances over as Cora flops onto the couch. "You know, the magic vet we know almost nothing about other than that he was the emissary who  _didn't_ stop your house from burning to the ground?" 

Cora disappears from her spot on the couch and slams Stiles against the wall by his throat. "Watch your mouth," she growls, eyes lighting up. 

"Cora—" Derek says firmly, stepping towards her. 

She whirls on Derek, hand still tight around Stiles's throat, half-cutting off his air. What is it with the Hales and slamming him against things, anyway? "Have you heard the way he talks? Like it's some sort of joke," she scoffs. 

"That's just how he is," Derek says, placing his hand on her wrist. 

"Air," Stiles forces out. 

Eyes going back to normal, Cora glares at Stiles but allows Derek to pull her hand away from his throat. Stiles gasps to refill his lungs. Cora stalks into the tiny kitchen, and okay, maybe she has a point. But still…. 

Stiles looks at Derek expectantly. 

"I've talked to Deaton," Derek says. 

"Wow, with actual words? I'm impressed." 

Derek ignores him. "Emissaries usually don't involve themselves in pack affairs except for when the Alpha calls on them for advice. It wasn't his fault." Derek's eyes flick down to the side. 

Oh, God, Stiles recognizes that face from the mirror. "It was Kate's, you know," he clarifies, eyes on Derek. Expression freakishly vulnerable, Derek meets his gaze. It makes Stiles uncomfortable, and he glances over at where Cora's banging around the kitchen. He swallows, almost angry with himself for caring. Somehow Derek's wormed his way into Stiles's little circle of people, and Stiles doesn't know when that happened. It must have been somewhere between the first and the last time he and Derek saved each other's sorry ass. "It was Kate's fault." 

Derek nods and looks down just as the door slides open and Peter strolls in like he owns the place, a leather messenger bag hanging off his shoulder. "Oh, Stiles. First Scott, now Derek. You're on a roll." 

Stiles grinds his teeth together and steps around Derek. "You know what, Peter? Shut the hell up." 

"Oh, I'm sorry, you've convinced me. I take it back," Peter says as he walks towards the table in front of the window. Stiles crosses his arms and scowls even as his cheeks heat up, visions of Peter's mouth around his dick gathering at the forefront of his thoughts. 

"What's he talking about?" Cora asks, and Stiles latches onto the distraction with gusto. 

"He's talking about literally nothing because, and I don't know if you've realized this yet, considering your long stay in who the hell knows where, but your uncle's kind of a manipulative dick—" Stiles glares at Peter, "—who seriously needs to get over himself." 

Peter narrows his eyes and places his bag on the table. "If by manipulative dick you mean the only person brave enough to say what needs to be said, then sure, I'll take it." 

Stiles walks over and plants his hands on the table. "Screw you, that's my job." He shakes his finger at Peter and adds, "And you're fucking wrong, asshat!" 

Cora steps out of the kitchen. "Seriously, what the hell are you two talking about?" 

"Nothing!" Stiles snaps. 

Off to the side behind Stiles, Derek speaks up before Stiles can say anything else. "Peter's implying that it… it was my fault. The fire," Derek admits, voice low and head bowed, and fuck everything, Stiles can tell by Derek's voice that he believes it, too. 

Cora shakes her head in confusion. "Why would he—" 

"It doesn't matter why he'd say that because it's not true!" Stiles nearly shouts, waving his arms as if he can stop the impending train wreck, but, as usual, everyone ignores him. 

"I was… I'd been…." Derek glances up at Cora before looking at the floor. He shakes his head and turns to the window, crossing his arms. 

"He was fucking the Argent bitch," Peter grinds out, for the first time showing an emotion other than sly amusement. 

Stiles's gaze flicks back and forth between all three Hales as Cora's face falls, Peter watches Derek's back in hateful triumph, and Derek stands stock-still. Fuck it. If Stiles has to play therapist to stop Peter from ruining the cohesive group they're starting to form, then that's what he'll do. God save them all. 

Stiles turns to Peter. "Yeah, and what were you doing?" He remembers shoving the truth in Chris Argent's face, and he's more than willing to do the same thing to Peter. 

Peter's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, as if he'd thought that was the end of it. As if he'd thought he'd won. Asshole. 

"Yeah, that's right," Stiles says. "What were you doing while 'the Argent bitch' was fucking over your nephew?" 

"Stiles," Derek says quietly, but Stiles ignores him. 

He doesn't take his eyes off Peter. "You seemed to know everything about Paige, so why didn't you know about Kate? Did you stop caring? Were you too blind to notice?" Stiles's upper lip ticks upward as he sniffs in disdain. "I thought you were smart, Peter, but I guess I overestimated you." 

"Stiles!" Derek says, pained and hoarse, but he doesn't turn around, so Stiles opens his mouth to keep going. 

"I wasn't his keeper," Peter cuts in coldly, face dangerously blank. 

"Weren't you?" Stiles asks, leaning forward, palms pressed against the table. He lowers his voice. "According to your little story, you were his closest confidante. And I did some math, you know. Derek was still a minor, a  _child_ , when Kate got to him. You weren't." Stiles sniffs. "So where were you, Peter? Where was Talia?" 

Peter's eyes glow, and a threatening growl rumbles out of his throat. Stiles takes it as a victory and grins. Blood singing, he leans forward on his elbows and purrs, "Look what you let Kate do to him." 

Glass shatters behind Stiles, piercing the silence, and Stiles whips around to see Derek pulling his bloodied fist out of the smashed window. Seething, Derek stares at the ground, his jaws clenched together, brows lowered, shoulders knitted together. Seeing him like this feels like having ice dumped down Stiles's spine. 

Derek stomps around him, somehow managing to look small and fragile despite his bulk and aggression. He throws the door open and stalks out the loft.   

"Derek—" Stiles starts, but Cora cuts him off with a warning "Don't" as the door slams shut with a rattle. She glances between Peter and Stiles, her eyebrows drawn together in thought, before saying, "I'll talk to him." She follows Derek out the loft, leaving Stiles with a Peter he desperately doesn’t want to look at for fear of death. 

He'd known Derek needed to have a meltdown, but he didn't want it to happen like this. 

Awful silence looms over the loft for a long moment in which Stiles considers saving himself some pain by tasing himself in the face. He can see Peter out of the corner of his eye, standing stock-still in the same shuttered position he'd taken when Stiles first started talking. 

Peter moves, making Stiles wince, but all Peter does is slide a book out of the messenger bag onto the table. 

Stiles looks at it. It's another old, thin leather-bound book. Probably magic. 

Peter pushes off the table and circles around towards Stiles, claws scraping across wood as he drags his hand off the table. The harsh, coarse sound makes Stiles inhale sharply and start backing away. "Is that what you told yourself so you could fall asleep last night?" Peter asks, voice cutting. 

"What?" Stiles blurts out, freezing in his tracks. He regrets it as soon as Peter stops in front of him, settling his hip against the table. 

Peter's upper lip ticks upward as he makes the exact same sniff of disdain Stiles had made just minutes ago. "Did you tell yourself you weren't responsible for your own decisions?" He leans in and breathes in deep by Stiles's ear. "Was your father at fault for the way you moaned and begged for my mouth?" 

Stiles stiffens. "It's not the same." 

Peter pulls away, his answering grin not reaching his eyes. "Isn't it? You're a minor, 'still a  _child_ ,'" he croons. He curls his right hand around Stiles's throat just beneath his chin and circles his thumb over Stiles's pulse point. "Look what the responsible adults in your life let me do to you." 

Stiles narrows his eyes, refusing to let Peter rile him. "You know I haven't been a child for a long time, and, unlike Derek, I know what I'm getting into." 

"Do you," Peter says flatly, more a statement than a question. He doesn't blink as he watches Stiles, his expression dark and intent, like he's debating the pros and cons of ripping Stiles's throat out. Stiles doesn't really care. He's still too useful for Peter to kill. 

He pushes himself into Peter's space. "Yeah, because Kate might've fooled Derek, but you're not fooling me. No matter how much you manage to convince everyone else otherwise, I'll always remember what a monster you are." 

Peter smiles, intrigued and bright like a polished scythe. Before Stiles can react, his hand tightens around Stiles's neck, and he tugs Stiles in for a quick, rough kiss full of teeth. Shoving his tongue into Stiles's mouth, Peter refuses to give an inch even as Stiles presses right back into it, angry and biting like he's starving. God help him, but he wants it. Wants to prove he can handle it. 

Peter nips at Stiles's lips and drags his tongue over the roof of his mouth, making Stiles's breath hitch. With a final tug on Stiles's lower lip, teeth digging in painfully, barely shy of breaking the skin, Peter pulls away and murmurs, "I wonder what that makes you, Stiles." 

Breathless, Stiles licks his smarting lips and shrugs, fingers digging into Peter's hips. He'd told Matt he was an abominable snowman. He's had to remind Scott he's human. His father's convinced himself Stiles is some sort of hero. 

But all Stiles can recall in that moment is how he leaned in and recognized something in the Kanima's eyes, how at the last second he snatched his hand away from Peter's lengthening fangs, how he clung to his mother's limp hand as her final breath left her lungs. He remembers it all with the specter of blood on his hands and adrenaline in his veins. 

He dips his head into the crook of Peter's neck and bites down on deceptively tender flesh, driving the memories out of his head with the taste of skin under his tongue. Mouth clumsy from inexperience but slick and vicious enough to make a point, he coaxes Peter's blood to the surface and sucks a deep bruise into Peter's skin. The mark fades away as soon as Stiles pulls back to examine it. "Whatever I need to be," he confesses into Peter's throat, eyes hooded. 

He can't bring himself to pull away and meet Peter's eyes. 

Ultimately, it's Peter who steps back first, eyeing Stiles with so much unbridled want that Stiles has to look away again. He watches Peter's broad, calloused hands as he pushes the book towards Stiles. "Cross-reference the runes Blake made with these." He walks around Stiles over to the couch, leaving Stiles to blink in mild shock at the topic change. 

"…And you're not helping why?" Stiles asks, voice soft and almost hoarse. 

Peter settles down on the couch and throws his feet up onto the coffee table, crossing his ankles together. "Consider it a learning exercise." He closes his eyes and folds his hands over his stomach. 

Stiles watches Peter's chest and abdomen rise and fall as he breathes, steady and slow, and he wonders where the claws and teeth went. He almost wishes Peter was half-shifted and shoving him up against a wall right now, violently or sexually, maybe both. At least then Stiles would know what he was afraid of. 

 

o-o-o 

 

Cora and Derek return late in the evening right as Stiles's dad texts him for the third time asking if he's still alive and ever planning on coming home. He tells Derek he's only gotten through a quarter of it all, but Derek just tells him to go home, the only sign that the earlier events ever happened visible in the way he pretends Peter doesn't exist and the care he takes to stay out of Stiles's space. Stiles thinks of saying he's sorry, but he's always been bad at apologies, butchering them before he even gets the words out. And, for all that Stiles handled it poorly, Derek needed to hear it. 

Derek follows Stiles's Jeep in his Camaro and drives away without so much as a wave when Stiles steps into his house. Stiles doesn't blame him. 

He almost forgets to eat dinner until his dad reminds him. He eats slowly and methodically, the food dull and tasteless on his tongue. His dad seems to sense his melancholy, but Stiles doesn't have much to say when he mentions it. 

He takes a shower and finally lets himself freak out, soaping himself up and dragging a washcloth over his body until his skin hurts, pink and raw. It doesn't help very much. 

He chugs through his homework, putting only enough effort into it to get it done, and spends most of the night staring at his ceiling, trying to summon the will to experiment with his magic, but it's dim and distant, the knot of energy and resistance in his gut tight and contained, muffled. It's there, but it's so much more difficult to tap into without the Nemeton mere feet away to amplify it. 

He didn't arrange a visit to the Nemeton with Peter, and he doesn't plan to. Not tonight. 

 

o-o-o 

 

His eyes close, and his knife scrapes against bone and tendons as it slices into Jennifer's heart with a squelch. He scrabbles at the smooth tiles of the classroom floor as Aiden's foot hits his ribs with a crack and knocks the wind out of his lungs. His blood pumping as his sneakers slap against the ground, he sprints out of school with Aiden's life singing in his veins. Peter's fangs break the skin of his wrist, and sickly roots plunge into his torso. 

He wakes up clammy and terrified, his sheets damp with sweat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you already know this, but just for my own peace of mind, please keep in mind that these characters are terrible role models.


	9. Blunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> blunder: a very bad move, an oversight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual, much thanks to [edragoon](http://edragoon.tumblr.com/) for her feedback.

They make their move the next day at school, and Stiles is frustratingly absent for all of it. He's sitting in Jennifer's class to "make sure she doesn't interfere", but really, it's just because his dad wants his delicate, human son to stay out of danger's claws. So while Jennifer geekgasms over _Heart of Darkness_ , Stiles shifts in his seat, jiggling his leg and staring at his phone on his desk, half-covered by his book. He starts to slouch down in his chair a couple times, but every time he does the movement pulls at the torn skin of Peter's healing claw marks, and Stiles has to bite back a yelp.

"Stiles, do you know where Scott is?" Jennifer asks halfway through the period.

He jerks his head in the negative, imagining all the things that could be going wrong right now. Lydia was supposed to distract Aiden so Allison could spray him in the face with wolfsbane and slide a ketamine-laced knife into his ribcage under his jacket, but what if that didn't work? What if Aiden slashed their throats open before Lydia could say a word? What if he's holding Lydia hostage like a human shield? What if Allison had a PTSD flashback to her more bloodthirsty days and chickened out? What if Ethan didn't take the bait when Isaac tried to pick a fight with him? What if Cora got kicked out of school for not actually being a student? What if security finally installed cameras? What if Scott couldn't bring himself to throw a punch? He's probably dead right now, limbs twisted and broken, lying in a puddle of his own blood, and Stiles will never ever get to introduce him to the wonders of Star Wars.

"Sorry I'm late," Scott says from the doorway with an apologetic little smile. He looks perfectly fine and healthy in his clean, gray, long-sleeve shirt and dark jeans.

Last period, he was wearing a white t-shirt with a striped, zip-up sweater.

"Do you have a pass?" Jennifer asks.

Scott shakes his head, setting his jaw.

Jennifer frowns at him like the dutiful teacher most of her students think she is and motions at the empty seat beside Stiles. "Then see me after class."

Scott takes the seat next to Stiles, walking stiffly like he's trying not to limp.

Stiles narrows his eyes at Scott, eyeing him up and down. He jerks his head at Scott's right calf, where a dark stain looks like it just might be sluggishly spreading.

"I'm fine," Scott says. "We're all fine." He follows Stiles's eyes to his leg. "It's already healing."

Stiles glances around the room, but no one seems to be listening, probably long used to them whispering about silly nonsense like werewolves and death. "

Scott grinds his teeth together, eyes going to his desk. "I think they got the message," he says 

"…Okay," Stiles says in acceptance. His eyes linger on the defeated slope of Scott's shoulders and the solemnity of his gaze. If Stiles had never dragged Scott into the woods, Scott would be sitting up in his seat the entire class period, eager to learn. He wouldn't be assuring Stiles that he's alive and relatively uninjured; he'd be taking notes, smiling every once and a while at a silly thought he just had or laughing under his breath at one of Stiles's comments. He'd never have to pack a spare outfit in case his first one got too bloody.

Stiles will never stop regretting that day.

 

o-o-o

 

Jennifer hands them a stack of passes at the end of class and asks if Scott's okay with a nod at his leg. "Yeah," Scott says slowly, and thank God he's weirded out by her concern, too.

"You know," says Jennifer. "You're allowed to ask for my help. That was part of the deal."

"We'll ask for your help if we need it," Scott says firmly. The cadence of his voice is beginning to sound like Deaton's. It's disturbing.

Jennifer looks doubtful. "It might be too late by then, Scott."

"The number you used to text us at the beginning of the year," Scott says, "That was yours, right?"

Jennifer nods.

"Then if we need you, we'll be able to contact you right away." He gestures with the stack of passes. "This is good enough for now," he says in clear dismissal. He walks towards the door.

"Stiles," Jennifer says, stopping Stiles from following after him.

Stiles stops halfway to the door and crosses his arms. "What?"

She stares at him for a long moment that makes Stiles's skin crawl.

"What!?" he asks again.

She presses her lips together in a thin line and narrows her eyes, as if trying to look at him from a different angle. "You're in too deep, Stiles," she says slowly

"Yeah, tell me something I don't know," Stiles spits.

She nods and ignores his sarcasm. "I can see it all around you, sinking its teeth in. You can't keep ignoring it."

"'It'?" Scott asks from the doorway.

Stiles swallows. "I'm doing everything _but_ ignoring it."

Jennifer flutters her hands in frustration. "That's not what I mean. I mean—" She shakes her head, as if she actually cares. "It's not what you think it is. It's not an 'it'."

"Stiles?" Scott asks.

"What are you talking about?" Stiles asks, waving his arms right back at her. "Are you mad at me for not using the proper pronoun?" He screws up his face. Seriously–it's a tree.

The same freshman that scuttled in yesterday now slides past Scott and takes her seat at the back of the room, keeping her head down.

Jennifer glances between her and Stiles and lowers her voice. "What I mean is that you're not treating it how it's meant to be treated," she says carefully. "You have to respect it."

Great, now he's getting advice from Serial Killer #2. Next thing you know, it'll be Gerard. Or Deucalion. Maybe both. Maybe the murder twins will drop by his locker some time and advise him to stop hanging around Peter Hale.

Stiles stares at her and shakes his head, blinking wide-eyed. "Great, thanks, Ms. Blake. Super helpful." He groans and turns around, throwing his arm around Scott's neck and dragging him away.

"What was that all about?" Scott asks.

Stiles claps Scott on the shoulder and pulls away. "Just magic stuff. Where'd you leave the twins?"

Scott grimaces. "Ethan's in the boiler room, and Aiden's in the rafters above the theater."

"Still alive?"

Scott shrugs. "Barely. We might have to check on them tomorrow. Allison and her dad trapped each of them in mountain ash."

Stiles eyes the tightness around Scott's lips and the guilty arch of his eyebrows. He decides to change the topic. "I still can't believe they let Allison's dad and Derek in here."

Scott shrugs. "They'll let anyone in here."

Isaac steps up to Scott's side, saying, "Someone should really bring that up to the administration."

Allison steps up to Isaac's side. "Bring what up to the administration?"

Lydia leans in over Allison's shoulder. "'Everything' is my best guess."

Allison pulls a couple bottles of pepper spray out of her purse and reaches across Isaac and Scott to hand them to Stiles.

A smile tugs at his lips. Maybe everything's not all so bad after all.

 

o-o-o

 

Stiles does his homework. He makes dinner for his dad. He does more homework. His dad teaches him how to keep his elbows in and throw a punch without breaking his thumb. He reads more from Peter's book and makes a list of supplies to get. He thinks of sending it to Peter but decides he'll try to see what he can get on his own first.

He tries his hand at meditating and ends up falling asleep in his bed with his legs still crossed Indian-style.

Finally, things are starting to look up.

He wakes up sprawled across the Nemeton with the small sapling right in front of his nose. He  shivers in his thin pajamas, the first traces of morning light making his eyes ache as they adjust.

"What the fuck!?"

 

o-o-o

 

He discovers why Peter, when leading Stiles to and from the Nemeton, had taken a few twists and turns instead of taking a straight-shot there, and, surprisingly enough, it wasn't because he was trying to make Stiles rely on him to find it. It was because there is a river and a fucking ravine between the Nemeton and the road, Stiles thinks. Hopes. If his sense of direction is off, he's gonna spend the next week wandering around the woods in circles until he dies of dehydration or gets mauled by an alpha werewolf. Or worse.

He really hopes his sense of direction is right.

He finds a shallow, rocky spot in the river and hops between rocks to get across. He slips off a slimy one in the middle and lands on his ass in two feet of icy running water. He's so fucking thirsty he is literally _this_ close to drinking it.

He growls in frustration and sloshes through the water to the river bank.

When he hits the ravine, leaves stuck to the soles of his painfully white, wrinkled feet, he follows the edge of it downstream for what must be a goddamn mile before he finally finds the end and walks around it.

The sun's just finished rising over the horizon when he reaches the road some fifteen minutes later, and he decides he's never hiking again. Ever. Not even if he's guaranteed a path, shoes, and a warm hoodie. He doesn't care how many dead bodies are out there waiting to be found. Never again.

Feet stinging and cramped from cold, he walks down the road for ten or so minutes, driven by the vague hope that he'll be able to make it home before his dad wakes up.

His hopes are dashed to pieces when a far too familiar hybrid drives towards him and starts slowing to a stop, the driver's window rolling down.

"Nope," Stiles says, spinning on his abused heel and trudging back the way he came.

"Get in the car before you catch pneumonia, you idiot," Peter's voice says from beside him.

Stiles keeps walking and refuses to look at Peter, who he's absolutely not avoiding. Actually, yes. Yes, he is avoiding Peter. Who wouldn't? "No, I think I'm good."

"Stiles," Peter says, exasperated. Then, when Stiles continues to plod on: "I have water."

Stiles pauses and glares at him.

Peter stops the car and leans back in his seat, watching Stiles expectantly.

Stiles grumbles under his breath and slinks into the passenger seat. A water bottle sits between the seats, perspiration clinging to the metal, cold against Stiles's cracked lips. He chugs it, and it's like Heaven running down his parched throat.

The heat's blowing full blast, painful against Stiles's icy skin. He turns it down a little and shrinks in on himself, not that it does much good, given the way his still wet pajamas cling to him. He feels like a drowned rat. He's surprised Peter's deigned to allow Stiles's gross self to so much as touch the interior of his car.

"You'll be warmer if you take your shirt off."

"Ha."

Peter shrugs as he turns the car around.

Stiles knows he's good-looking, okay? But he has werewolves and competent lacrosse players to compete with, and compared to them? He's below average. So if Peter's creeping gives him a weird combination of uncomfortable heebie-jeebies and stupid-ass butterflies in his stomach, so fucking what?

He's fucked. He's so fucked.

"Perv," Stiles mumbles, switching on the radio. Some woman's in the middle of talking about the Gaza strip, and Stiles so does not want to freak out about the state of the world right now. He changes the channel and starts searching for the most annoying pop music he can find.

Peter hums next to him, as if somehow pleased by the name-calling.

"You didn't happen to just randomly find me on the way to your evil lair, did you?" Stiles asks hopefully.

A grin tugs at Peter's lips. "Your father called me." When Stiles screws up his face, Peter adds, "He called everyone."

Stiles groans and drags a hand down his face. "Awesome."

 

o-o-o

 

Stiles's feet hurt.

He tells his dad he doesn't remember anything other than waking up in the woods, and he goes to school by telling the truth, which is that he can't afford to fall behind any more than he already has, especially considering the upcoming ACT, which Stiles hasn't prepared for. At all. Because he's been a little preoccupied keeping himself and everyone else alive. So irresponsible.

When he gets to school, tailed by Scott and Isaac, he expects Scott at the very least to glue himself to his side, but instead the first thing Scott does after getting off his bike is squint at something in the parking lot. Stiles is almost offended.

"What's up?" Stiles asks, following Scott's gaze to Danny's car. Danny sits in the driver's seat, talking fervently on the phone, his gestures tight and angry.

Scott tilts his head the way he does whenever he's super-listening. "Ethan broke up with him over text," Scott says.

"Ooo, ouch," Stiles says, wincing. He glances back at the school, as if expecting one of the twins to be watching them from the window. "Well, that's good, right? Maybe that means they've hightailed it out of town by now. Ethan couldn't say it face-to-face, so he did it over text. Which, wow, even I know better than that, and I haven't dated anyone since that thing in kindergarten. Really, Ethan could have at least left a voice mail." Seriously, it's _Danny._

Scott glances at him. "Yeah," he says in his thinking voice, which means he hasn't heard at least half of what Stiles just said.

"What?" Stiles asks. 

Scott shakes his head. "You're right. Why didn't he leave a voice mail?"

Hey, Scott did listen! Stiles shrugs. "Probably because he was just using Danny the whole time and didn't give a flying fuck about him."

Scott frowns like the very idea of not caring for one's partner in the least bit is inconceivable. He shakes his head. "Come on, let's go," he mumbles and herds Stiles into school.

 

o-o-o

 

After a day blissfully free of murderous alpha werewolves, Stiles thinks that maybe Scott might be onto something after all with the whole not-killing thing. Maybe the alphas got the message. Maybe Scott and Stiles and their ragtag group of teenagers won't have to become murderers before they graduate high school.

Of course, there's still the power-hungry tree to deal with.

"Hey, I'm heading to Derek's to see if we can figure out why I was wandering around the woods this morning." The lie rolls off his tongue before he has much time to think about it, but Stiles isn't surprised when Scott doesn't detect him lying. When it comes to detecting lies, werewolves aren't much different from their electrical counterparts. They both detect changes in the physiological condition, and they usually detect lying because lying takes more work. But the way Stiles just lied, he wasn't really thinking about it, and he wasn't particularly worried about the consequences. He hardly felt any pressure, and he was confident Scott would believe him. That confidence shone through way more than the truth.

So he's getting better at lying to werewolves. He's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

Scott's face falls. "I've gotta get to work." He frowns, looking around, but the only one around from their group is Isaac since Allison and Lydia had no reason to stay for cross country practice. "Maybe Isaac can drive with—"

Stiles shakes his head. "I'll be fine. Seriously, the twins were missing today, and Ethan broke up with Danny over text. For all we know, the alpha pack's gone by now." Scott doesn't look convinced, and, to be honest, Stiles is right there with him, but he's got places to be, crazy psychos to see. "Dude, Kali attacked me and I trapped her in a circle of mountain ash. If they are still here, I'll be fine. And after what you did to the twins, they'll be after you and Isaac, not me. So you two will be safer if you stay together, and I'll be safer if I find out what the hell is going on with me. Go work. Make money."

It takes some more convincing, but in the end Stiles gets his way.

When it comes to giving his dad the same excuse, it helps that he fails to mention he's–gasp—driving alone. He's kinda sick of needing an escort to go everywhere. It puts a real damper on his impulsive, definitely not irresponsible behavior.

 

o-o-o

 

"Okay, half of this is too cerebral to understand, and the other half I just—no. Can't do it. I just don't have what it takes to work myself into a spiritual frenzy, and as exciting as I find trying new things, caffeine and Adderall are more than enough for me. I don't need any more drugs in my system."

His back against the armrest of the leather couch with his legs stretched out across the cushions, Peter ignores Stiles, apparently immune to his grumblings.

Another fifteen minutes later, Stiles groans and carefully sets the nearly destroyed journal down on the coffee table beside the dusty chessboard. "Your other book makes it sound like the Nemeton's a 'node' in the world-wide web of magic." He nods at the journal. "This one—not so much. This one sounds like it came straight out of Pocahontas, except instead of the tree being my dearly beloved ancestor who offers cryptic advice a la Deaton, it's a scorned god thing that wants to steal my soul and slaughter what's left of the town."

Peter continues to read whatever's on the monitor of his laptop. "And that's not the only mythology out there."

"Yeah, well, which one is the _right_ mythology?"

Peter looks up and shrugs, a wry grin tugging at his lips. "If I knew, I'd tell you, but I can't use it directly, and I've only ever had to concern myself with the practical application of it, not the theory. I was hoping you'd figure it out, to be honest."

"Ha, honest. That's funny."

Peter gives him a dirty look. "Really? When have I lied to you, Stiles?"

Stiles crosses his arms. "Oh, I dunno, how about that time you forgot to mention it was me Jennifer wanted to sacrifice, not my dad."

Peter narrows his eyes and tilts his head up ever so slightly. "I promised to help you save your father, and I did. You know I had to lie. You had to believe I was trading you for him, or she would have known. I kept the promise that mattered."

Stiles sinks into the leather, wincing when the movement tugs at Peter's claw marks beneath his shirt. "I could've acted."

Peter raises his eyebrows.

"I'm getting better," Stiles says defensively.

Peter exhales a little out his nose and smiles privately, closing his laptop. He climbs off the couch and walks around the back of the loveseat. Stiles twists to watch as Peter stops behind him, looking down at him. "What?"

Peter pulls at the collar of Stiles's shirt to examine the claw marks above his shoulder blades, covered by gauze taped on clumsily. Stiles had done the bandaging himself, not wanting his dad to ask questions or worry about them. Peter tsks. "Keep reading," he says and walks away into the kitchen.

Stiles reaches for the journal only to wince when he realizes he just automatically followed Peter's order without a second thought. He glares at the journal and rests his hands in his lap, tapping a finger against the wrecked cover. Stiles finds his eyes drawn to the chessboard. It's been nearly two weeks since he made his last move. It feels like it's been an eternity.

As Peter bangs around the kitchen, Stiles studies the chessboard. A warm beam of burnished sunlight shines through the window, falling across the glass board in a diagonal stripe. Stiles moves a pawn, the half-melted, warped slope of its head smooth beneath his finger pads, and leans back, trying to predict Peter's next move.

A second later, Peter walks into the living room with the same brown, goopy poultice he'd given Stiles to use on Cora to heal her head wound. "Take off your shirt," he says, setting the poultice down on the four-person round table opposite the kitchen doorway in the half-dining room side of the apartment.

Stiles scowls. "No, I think I'm good."

"You're bleeding through," Peter says nonchalantly, stopping behind the loveseat at Stiles's shoulder, just within Stiles's peripheral vision.

"What!?" Stiles stiffens and tugs on the collar of his worn t-shirt, trying and failing to see over his shoulder.

"Stiles," Peter sighs.

Stiles glares up at Peter, trying to read his expression. He looks, if anything, vaguely annoyed. "What do you get out of it?" Stiles ask.

"You not bleeding all over my upholstery."

Stiles continues to glare, hands going to the hem of his shirt. "No funny business."

Peter has the gall to roll his eyes. "Cross my heart and hope to die." When Stiles doesn't respond right away, he asks, "Should I pinkie swear, too?"

Stiles makes a face, and before he can think any better of it, he tugs off his shirt as quickly as possible. It catches on the tape as he peels it off and makes his skin twinge in pain. He balls it up in his lap, tensing under the weight of Peter's satisfied leer. "Hurry up," Stiles growls.

Peter lifts an eyebrow and rips the swatch of gauze off Stiles's left shoulder. Ignoring Stiles's yelp of pain, he rips off the one on the right shoulder. "Seriously, asshole?" Stiles grinds out through the flare of pain.

Peter smirks. "Sit at the table," he says, nodding at the round table by the window. "I don't want you bleeding on my couch." He walks into the kitchen to throw the gauze away.

Stiles moves over to the table, straining to see over his shoulders until Peter gets back and catches a glimpse of gleaming white, wrinkled skin. He cringes in disgust and bumps into an armless chair with a mumbled, "Ow." He sits sideways in it and leans an elbow on the table, glaring at Peter as he walks back in the room. "I hate you."

Peter hums noncommittally and tugs another chair around to face Stiles's back, making Stiles's breath shallow and the back of his neck prickle. Stiles strains to watch over his shoulder as Peter dips two fingers into the poultice and brings his hand to the back of Stiles's shoulder. His warm, slick fingers brush gently around the edges of the torn skin, and he carefully dabs at the torn muscle of each wound, each brush of skin on skin sending a stinging tickle down Stiles's spine. "Tell me how it went with the twins today," Peter murmurs, breath tickling the back of Stiles's neck.

Stiles tells him what little he knows, voice soft and too throaty. He can feel his magic funneling through the poultice, warm and soothing on his aching muscles. The tension floods out of him as he talks, leaving him droopy-eyed and loose-limbed by the time Peter finishes, the werewolf's palm resting over Stiles's spine just beneath the base of his neck. The heat from his palm sinks into Stiles's skin, and Stiles should feel nervous and twitchy beneath the weight of it, but he doesn't. God help him, it doesn't make him nervous at all.

"Scott's proven himself wilier than I expected in the past, but I don't think he's managed to drive them away. Not yet," Peter says. Palm sliding off Stiles's back, sending pleasant shivers down Stiles's spine, he picks the poultice up off the table and wanders back into the kitchen.

Stiles tilts his head against the tall ladder-back of the chair and closes his eyes, dozing off.

His eyes snap open when Peter carefully places the chessboard on the table and takes the chair in front of him. Stiles squints and sits up, suddenly feeling awkward. Peter's not supposed to acknowledge their game, let alone set it down right in front of Stiles's face.

His eyes flick to Stiles's shoulders. "You should stay still until it dries," Peter says, meeting Stiles's eyes as if daring him to argue. Stiles blinks and nods, and Peter moves his own pawn.

Stiles isn't sure how long they play, but by the time the sun's sunk halfway below the horizon, he's captured both Peter's knights, a bishop, and half his pawns, but Peter's got his queen, and his phone's vibrating in his pocket. Stiles yanks it out, ensures his dad he'll be home soon, and grabs his backpack off the floor. He reaches for the journal, but Peter's voice stops him from touching it.

"Don't even think about it."

"Dude—"

"It's already falling apart. The last thing it needs is to be stuffed inside your backpack next to a half-open bottle of Coke. You can come back over the weekend and read it here." Peter's look stops Stiles from protesting more.

"…Can I take pictures of it?"

"No."

"Oh, come on—"

"There's some dangerous information in there. I wouldn't want it to find its way into irresponsible hands," Peter says, ever the dutiful citizen.

Stiles crosses his arms and squints at Peter. "You just want an excuse for me to keep coming over so you can Stockholm Syndrome me more."

Peter smiles in delight. "More?"

"Jesus Christ." Stiles rolls his eyes and shoulders his backpack. He heads for the door. "Try not to get killed while I'm gone, you crazy psycho," he grumbles under his breath.

"I'd hate to disappoint." A hand curls around Stiles's bicep and swings him around, and the next thing he knows Peter's fisting his hair and pushing their mouths together, shallow and lingering, with a hint of teeth just strong enough to make Stiles's hands fly to Peter's waist. As soon as Stiles tries to deepen it, Peter pulls away and smirks at Stiles's ensuing scowl. "Should I check the Nemeton tomorrow morning to make sure you haven't sleep-walked again?"

Stiles's hormones dissipate, and his stomach twists. He grits his teeth and shrugs, then changes his mind. "No, I'll be fine," he says, and turns back around to open the door.

Before he goes to sleep that night, he downs a couple sleeping pills and handcuffs his left foot to the bed post.

 

o-o-o

 

That Thursday morning, he doesn't wake up on the Nemeton and his day goes swimmingly. Jennifer leaves him alone, Scott's limp has disappeared, and Allison promises to teach him knife-work when they both find time, which will probably be never, but still. His wolfsbane seeds arrive in the mail, and he practices making mountain ash float around in patterns and shapes around the house, much to the bemusement of his father. It's nice, but also frustrating. Peter's book talks about "basic" charms and enchantments, but Stiles doesn't have the strength to _do_ any of it, not this far away from the Nemeton. It's only because mountain ash works as a sort of conduit itself that he can levitate it. Still, it's a good day. He even gets all his homework done.

And then, the next morning, at 1:42 AM, he wakes up with his left ankle burning in pain from the cuff digging into it as he tumbles off the edge of the bed, and a tugging sensation in his gut makes him feel like he's about to throw up. As soon as he unlocks the cuffs, he lurches toward his bedroom door. His thoughts formless and swirling, it's all he can do to swipe his phone off the charger before he shoves his shoes on and runs out the front door.

He gets in his Jeep and drives like a maniac, probably because in that moment, he really is one, the urge to vomit disappearing as the tug in his gut grows. He calls Peter but doesn't register when or if Peter picks up, his thoughts jittery and consumed by _need need need power need need need life mine live live live live live Live LIVE_

_LIVE_

_MINE_

_LIVE_

_NOW._

He drops to his knees in the crook of two sprawling roots and collapses face first onto the Nemeton.

Some time later, the hair prickling on the back of his neck urges him awake, and he reluctantly peels his eyes open to the ever so creepy sight of Peter staring at him from across the Nemeton. He's sitting under one of the trees on the edge of the small, bare clearing, drinking a coffee with his ankles crossed in front of him, casual as can be. It's only his eyes, assessing and lacking their usual smugness, that give him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given what a drama queen I can be myself when I write, perhaps I shouldn't be quite so critical of Peter Hale.


	10. Hanging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hanging: unprotected and exposed to capture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoooo it's my birthday so I will be partying tonight which means I won't get to post this chapter Wednesday morning like I usually do, so congratulations, you get this a day early! WOOHOO!

Other than waking up on the Nemeton, Stiles's Friday remains blessedly stress-free when compared to his usual day of fear and panic. The anxiety's still there, though, underlying his every movement and joke. It doesn't help that Jennifer spends the whole class staring at him and that Coach Finstock spends the first ten minutes of practice grumbling about Danny taking a sickday right before their second to last cross country meet. The cross country meet that Stiles is skipping so he can spend the day with Peter in the vague hopes that he learns something actually useful.

His dad goes back to work, despite Stiles's protests, and Stiles spends the evening with Scott and Isaac, wolfing down pizza and playing Mario Kart.

Stiles waits until Scott's losing to Isaac to say he's skipping the meet tomorrow to work on his magic—which is totally the truth—and since it's not wonderful, sacrifice-everything lacrosse he'll be missing, Scott's fine with it. He even agrees to say Stiles twisted his ankle falling down the stairs if Finstock asks.

Isaac crows in triumph as he wins the race and consequently the last slice of pizza, and Scott gapes and yelps, "I was distracted!"

Stiles grins. For a fleeting moment, all they care about is what's on the tv screen and who gets the last slice of pizza. It's almost like they're normal.

 

o-o-o

 

"Did you visit a magic shop? Because those were definitely not here before," Stiles says as he walks in, glancing between the book shelves and the neat stack of books on the table in the corner. Several plain cardstock bookmarks stick out of each one. It's disgustingly early on a Saturday morning, and Stiles kind of wants to drown himself in coffee.

"Magic shops are unfortunately difficult to come by around here nowadays," Peter says, closing the front door and following Stiles in. "The last one went out of business sometime during my coma. Can't imagine why."

Stiles looks back at him, blinking. "I was kidding, but okay." He thumbs through the books as Peter walks away into the kitchen. Not one of them has a readable title, and one of them is more a sheaf of fragile paper protected by a plastic folder than it is a book. Stiles squints at the faded ink through the plastic. "What is that? Spanish?" he mutters.

"Portuguese," Peter says from the kitchen.

Stiles looks up as Peter walks back into the living room with two mugs full of—"Oh my god, murder whoever you want, I love you." Stiles snatches the fullest mug away, nearly spilling coffee all over himself. He takes a sip and grimaces. "Dude, why is there so much sugar in here? I take it back. You're terrible."

Peter watches in morbid fascination as Stiles chugs half the mug down. Stiles lowers it, licking coffee off his lips, smirking as Peter's eyes follow the movement. "Okay, lay it on me."

Peter raises his eyebrows. "Whatever do you mean?" He takes his own sip of coffee.

Stiles lifts his mug. "This. You being nice and considerate. What do you want?"

Peter steps into his space. "Maybe I just think you deserve something nice."

Stiles wrinkles his nose in derision. "Ha. No." He pushes past Peter, brushing up against him just because he can. Peter growls, and Stiles smirks at him over his shoulder as he walks into the kitchen.

He follows the smell of coffee to the coffee maker, a monstrously expensive thing made of sleek stainless steel and too many buttons. Peter leans over him as he refills his mug. "I can't imagine that mixes very well with Adderall. No wonder your heart's always racing."

He can feel Peter's body heat at his back. If he tries to turn around, they'll be right in each other's faces. He even considers it for just a moment. "Thanks for the concern, doc." Stiles looks over his shoulder, not bothering to glare. "Where's the creamer?"

Peter hums as he considers Stiles, his freshly shaven face closer than Stiles expected. Stiles half expects Peter to shove him up against the counter, but instead he steps back, nodding at the fridge without looking away.  

Stiles ignores him. The inside of Peter's fridge is distressingly normal, if a little sparse in content and way too organized, and Stiles grabs the creamer from the doorway, eyeing the way Peter's carefully tucked his hands in his pockets.

Whatever Peter has to say, it must be important if he's actually decided to restrain his urge to manhandle. It's enough to keep Stiles silent until he sits down at the table and spots the chess board, pieces set up neatly on opposing sides.

"You set it up again," he says in mild accusation. At the same time, he slides the top book over and opens it to the first bookmark. He blinks. One page is an illustration of a river, and the other page has been divided into what look like hieroglyphics and Middle English. The first footnote is a convoluted apology from the author for being unable to transcribe the first two sentences because of damage to the original work.

Peter hums, and Stiles looks up expectantly.

Peter shrugs a little. "You were going to lose, anyway." He pulls the book away and moves a pawn on the chessboard.

Stiles looks pointedly between Peter and the pawn. "Um, no. I'm not playing. Just tell me what's going on."

Peter sighs like Stiles is the one being difficult. "When I found you this morning, I tried to wake you up."

"And?" Stiles asks impatiently. He already knows this.

"I grabbed your shoulder, and the moment our skin met—" He pauses, and Stiles can't decide which is creepier: Peter's choice of words, or the fact that he's not actually trying to play up the potential creepiness of it. Usually Peter's creepiness is fully intentional; this time Stiles isn't sure. It's just enough to keep him from snapping at Peter to continue.

Gaze freakishly blank, Peter looks up and meets his eyes. "I felt like I was dying again." Sly amusement enlivens his face before Stiles can really consider his words. "And not in the good way, either."

"And I didn't wake up?" he asks carefully, voice low.

"You didn't react at all," Peter says, which, if he's telling the truth, is worrying, because Stiles has developed a habit of jerking awake at the slightest change in environment. He needs to find a therapist who specializes in supernatural trauma. One who isn't Morell.

Somehow he thinks that might be rather difficult.

"You were cold," Peter says. "But your heart was racing."

Stiles remembers Aiden's skin under his hands, remembers how it felt to feel himself heal.

His eyes flick down to the chessboard. "You think it's feeding off of me," he says without inflection.

In the corner of his peripheral vision, Peter dips his head in agreement.

Stiles jerks his head at the books. "What did the books say?"

"Nothing explicit," Peter admits. "Just enough to confirm my suspicions."

Stiles has to remind himself to breathe in deeply and meets Peter's eyes. "So what am I supposed to do?" he asks just a little helplessly. "Chain myself to my bed and hope the Nemeton gets tired of calling for me? Or am I supposed to –to what? Fucking give into it?" Stiles's knuckles whiten around his arms. "Bet you'd get a huge kick out of that," he mutters.

"Not particularly," Peter murmurs. "There's a myth about Merlin, you know. About how he died."

"Yeah, I know. Took me ten minutes online to find that one. He became one with a tree." Stiles swallows. "Please tell me the Nemeton just wants a little bit of my power. Please don't tell me it's trying to make me its Merlin."

Peter shrugs. "Perhaps not quite so literally, from what I could infer."

Stiles takes that in and tries not to panic in front of Peter. The tree's trying to eat him. Not vampire-style eat him, but full-on, chew-and-swallow _eat_ him. There's a myth about that, too. He read all about it just a day ago –the Jubokko tree of Japan. Starts out as a normal, happy little tree, then turns into a man-eater after its land survives a bloodbath. Beacon Hills seems like a prime spot for one of those. Stiles is just lucky the Nemeton hasn't grown any branches to tear his body apart with yet.

"Breathe, Stiles."

He's well on his way to a panic attack in front of Peter Hale, and there is no way in Hell he's letting that happen.

Stiles takes his time downing a long swig of coffee, swallowing heavily when the mug is half empty again. He wipes his mouth with his wrist, much to Peter's disgust, and grudgingly moves a frosted white pawn forward. "So how do I stop it?"

"I know you said you refused to do any tree-worshipping, but I found some rituals," Peter says slowly.

Stiles looks up at him, aghast. "Seriously, this thing's trying to eat me, and you think I should worship it? What the fuck?"

"Well," Peter drawls, moving another piece, "unless you leave Beacon Hills—and you're already in so deep I can't imagine that would be good for your health—you're going to keep giving it power whether you like it or not. So as far as I can predict, your safest option is to try to control how you give it that power."

That is a terrible idea. Stiles stares down at the board, not really seeing it. He closes his eyes for a long moment, then eyes the pieces. "That sounds really… rapey," he says with a sigh, shoulders sagging. He half-heartedly moves one of his pieces.

"Well, seeing as how it's taking away your free will and power," Peter notes, "yes."

"Dude," Stiles says, perturbed, "not helping." A thought occurs to him. As Peter moves his chosen piece, Stiles narrows his eyes and says, "You think… that if I —perform these rituals— I might be able to use magic further away from it. You think that's the real reason I'm having so much trouble accessing it—you think that's what the tree's taking."

Peter gives him a little half nod to the side in semi-agreement. "Yes, but… I think, ultimately," he smiles a little, "it wants to share. And I think you'd probably both be better off for it."

Stiles blinks rapidly and looks out the window. The clouds hang low outside, a light gray haze over the sky that dims the late morning sunlight. He takes another sip of coffee. A mirthless little laugh bubbles out of his throat as he stares at the board. "Sharing is caring, after all," he mutters. "God."

He sets the point of his elbow on the table and rests his face in his hand. He moves another piece.

"It's not so bad," Peter says in his I-find-your-suffering-mildly-amusing voice. "By the end of this, you could be quite the powerful druid. Or something."

Stiles looks up, not at all trying to hide the fact that he is five thousand percent done. "And you'd just love that, wouldn't you? Having so much power at your fingertips." A sharp, grim smile spreads across his face. "Screw you."

Peter smiles and moves another piece.

"You know," Stiles continues, bristling. "You don't really have that much control over me. I could live without your books and knowledge. We all could. All you _really_ have is a favor. Just one."

Peter meets his eyes and stares at Stiles like he can see right through him. "For now," he promises.

"'For now'." Stiles snorts. "Yeah, I see where this is going," he says, reckless challenge in his voice even though he's not quite sure what it is he's challenging. "You're not stupid enough to go after Scott or Derek when there's an alpha pack right there waiting for you to pick'em off. But what if Scott's plan has worked and they're gone? We haven't seen any sign of them for days now. Maybe you lost your chance."

"They're just biding their time. Lulling you into a false sense of security."

Stiles rolls his eyes, even though, personally, he's inclined to agree with Peter. "Yeah, well, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you." Stiles moves his piece, captures a knight. He winces a moment later, realizing he's made one of his bishops vulnerable.

"What's your point, Stiles?" Peter asks, annoyance hidden under a thin veneer of amusement.

Stiles runs a hand through his hair. "I just…. I just see where this is going, and I don't like it."

Peter hums and slowly moves his piece. "Oh?" He sets it down and captures the bishop.

Stiles grinds his teeth together. "You wanna be an alpha, I get it. You wanna have me under your thumb, I get that, too." He's not saying it's gonna happen, but he gets it. "But if you do become an alpha again…." Stiles sighs. "I remember what you were like before. And now you're going after –who, Deucalion? How are you gonna control yourself like that? You couldn't even control yourself before. Not really. So you kill him, and who's next? Derek, for not realizing what Kate was planning? Allison and Chris, for being her family? Scott, for fighting against you? Me? You know I can't let that happen."

"But you will. Because if it's not Deucalion, it'll be Scott. And no matter what you do, you know I'll find a way."

Stiles looks up and meets Peter's gaze, cold and frank. He wants to say things aren't like they were in sophomore year, that Scott can handle himself now, but he knows Scott, knows his sheer, narrow-minded goodness is gonna bite him in the ass one of these days. He stares down at the chessboard and, after a moment, slides his rook halfway across the board, captures a pawn. "I could just kill you," Stiles murmurs. "I don't need magic for that."

"It won't stick."

"It might if I cremate your body and scatter the ashes across the world."

Peter grins like Stiles is the cutest little thing he's ever seen. His eyes flick to the board, and his grin turns wide and sharp, a Cheshire cat's smile tucked under shrewd, knowing eyes which Stiles absolutely can't stand. Peter moves his piece, Stiles moves his, and ten minutes later Peter's rook is backing his king into a corner, and Stiles wants to punch something every time Peter says "Check."

"I fucking hate you," Stiles grumbles as he moves his king one last space.

Peter places his index finger on the top of his rook and smirks at Stiles as he slowly pushes it into place, like watching Stiles develop TMJ is the most satisfying thing in the world. "Check mate," he finally— _finally_ —says, and Stiles's king is trapped between a rook and a pawn plus a queen sitting innocently on the opposite corner of the board.

Stiles shakes his head and lunges for a book to read before Peter can start gloating. The first bookmark he turns to has an illustration of someone being drowned in a lake. He makes a face and turns to the next bookmark, which shows someone driving a coin into a tree. That's a nice one. He's read about these. Wishing trees—you drive a coin into the tree and make a wish. He thinks he'll read about this one, see how it compares to what he found online.

Peter starts setting up the board again and, unfortunately, begins to talk. Stiles is totally ignoring him. "You say you're worried I won't be able to control myself, but I don't think that's really it."

He's still ignoring him, but—"Um, yes, actually. Yes, it is. Like, you weren't exactly finished after you killed Kate, dude. Scott told me all about your little monologue. If we hadn't had, you know, _killed you_ , you totally would've murdered Allison."

Peter half-nods in acknowledgment. "I admit I may have been a little overzealous—"

"A little!?"

"—but circumstances have changed." Peter says without pause. "I didn't have a reason to control myself then. Why would I?" He huffs, a dark, amused little burst of air, his gaze distant and stony, his face lacking all expression but for a barely discernible tightness around the eyes and mouth. It's the lack of expression that stops Stiles from offering one of his many available biting retorts. It may be the closest he's ever come to seeing the real Peter Hale post-resurrection.

"Now I do," Peter says.

Stiles licks his lips and swallows, his body still from the neck down. He wants to ask, and he knows he shouldn't, at least not for the reasons he wants to, but fuck, he's never been very good at resisting his own impulses. He breathes in deeply. "So what is it? Your reason?"

That _look_ slides off Peter's face, slipping into a facsimile of a smile, and when he opens his mouth Stiles suddenly feels an extraordinary amount of sympathy for fish that hook themselves taking the bait.

"You," Peter answers.

For a split second, Stiles's breath catches, and he almost believes it. He blinks, mouth opening and closing, and then he can't help himself. "Me!?" He stands up, too riled up to stay sitting, and laughs as he walks away from the table, much to Peter's dismay. He paces between the loveseat and the table, not knowing what to do with himself. He stops and squints at Peter, arm flying out jerkily. "What, are you trying to tell me you love me?" He leans against the back of the loveseat and faces Peter, bringing a hand to his chest. "That's so sweet." He snorts. Fucking hilarious is what it is.

Peter does that thing where he rolls his eyes without actually rolling them. "Don't be ridiculous. I don't need you to love me. I just need you to work with me."

Oh, 'don't be ridiculous.' Now that's great for Stiles's self-esteem. Yeesh. Stiles is very loveable, okay? He is a loveable bundle of sarcasm and loyalty and dubious ethics. He is a delight.

"You do that," Peter continues, standing up and walking towards Stiles, "and everything will work out for the best. For all of us," he tacks on. "Not just me."

"Since when do you want what's best for all of us? Seriously, you wanna be an alpha, the big Kahuna. How is that—" Stiles hasn't been thinking long-term enough. He inhales in realization, and Peter stops in front of him and smiles. "You don't just want to be an alpha," Stiles says slowly. "…You want Beacon Hills."

"I want an empire," Peter corrects, and it should sound cheesy and absolutely ridiculous –it totally does— but then he says, "I want what my family had before and more," and Stiles….

Stiles doesn't even know what the Hales had before the fire, but he can make an educated guess. And he could buy into it. He could buy into the safety, the resources, the reputation it would create. He could buy into what he could do with it…. And he could buy into the lives it would save by giving Peter something else to focus on besides revenge, at the very least. Stiles could buy into it a lot.

Peter steps into his space, resting one hand on the top of the loveseat an inch away from Stiles's side. "And I need you by my side to make it happen."

"And by me, you actually mean the Nemeton," Stiles says, tilting an eyebrow.

Peter's lips twitch in chagrin. "Mostly," he admits. "But I wanted you even before, you know."

"I remember." Leather creaks as Stiles shifts his weight. Fuck. Seriously, this is Peter, but… this is Peter. If anyone can build themselves a supernatural empire out of Beacon Hills, it's him. Or, it might be, if he has someone else to reel him in, maybe act as a buffer. Between the two of them, it could work, especially if Stiles were to rope Scott into it somehow. "I… might be able to be persuaded," Stiles says slowly.

Peter grins and palms Stiles's face, pressing his body against Stiles's. "I'll persuade you," he promises, and tugs Stiles into a kiss, wet and languid as one of his hands slide into Stiles's hair and the other dips past the small of his back to hold him in place. As soon as Stiles sinks into it, Peter pulls away. "But first, we have to take care of the Nemeton." Stiles nearly groans, lips sensitive and tingling, as Peter migrates back over to the books. "It seemed to like Aiden's energy, so I was thinking we should try sacrificing something else to it."

Stiles cringes. "Oh, come on."

"Do you have any other suggestions?"

"Offerings? Like pie, or —or money. That's a thing, you know. People used to do that."

"You really think the Nemeton wants pie?" Peter asks flatly.

Stiles sighs and makes a face. He shakes a finger at Peter. "No people."

"Of course," Peter says like Stiles just said something ridiculous, which, no, he didn't, because if Peter was in his place, he'd totally have sacrificed half the town by now.

Stiles watches as Peter packs one of the books into his messenger bag, and he realizes Peter never really told him where these new books came from, so he asks.

"From a secret bunker hidden under the high school," Peter answers without looking up.

First he says he lives in a series of underground tunnels, now this? Stiles is so not falling for that again. "No, seriously, where'd you get them?"

Peter just glances up at him and smirks.

 

o-o-o

 

"Don't you fucking roll your eyes at me, you complete and utter nutcase. I'm not sacrificing Bambi!"

"You were fine with the idea before," Peter grumbles.

The fawn mewls, its tongue sticking out as it makes this high-pitched, ear-piercing little "meh!" sound.

Stiles claps his hand over his mouth. "Oh my god, I think I'm gonna throw up."

Peter stares at him in disappointment, but not disbelief, oddly enough. He looks down at the struggling fawn, its neck clutched in one of his hands, and purses his lips. He looks back up at Stiles. "Do you know how they make veal, Stiles?"

"Meh!" bleats the fawn.

"Oh my god, just let it go!"

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, as if Stiles is the one being unreasonable. "Stiles—"

"Meh!"

"Peter!"

Peter rolls his eyes so hard Stiles half suspects they'll fall out of his skull, but he does let the fawn go. It stands perfectly still for a second on the Nemeton, its spotted limbs trembling, and then Stiles shouts at it, "Go!" and it practically falls off the tree stump in its wild scramble for tree cover. "Run, Bambi, run!"

"Oh, God," Peter groans, shaking his head and blinking. He gives Stiles a look. "You know, it'll probably be eaten alive by a coyote."

"I don't care. I'm not cutting a baby deer's throat!"

"Then what will you do, Stiles? Sit and pray you don't become one with the tree?"

"You—" Stiles points at Peter, lips pressing together in wordless indignation. "Fuck you. That is exactly what I will do. I'm gonna Buddha the shit out of this tree."

Peter looks at him like he's insane, which is funny coming from Peter, given the givens. "What?"

Stiles sits down on the Nemeton and crosses his legs. "I'm gonna meditate. Just like the Buddha. It's gonna be awesome. Feel free to go away."

"The tree protected the Buddha, Stiles. It didn't feed off him. Most likely because it was alive and well, unlike this one."

"Oh, I'm sorry, were you there when he reached Enlightenment, old man?" Stiles asks. Peter narrows his eyes in vague exasperation, and Stiles sighs theatrically. "Just because you read it in a book doesn't mean it's true. Christ, old people." Stiles shakes his head and looks at the tree stump. It doesn't respond.

Peter looks at Stiles  like he can't believe he's stuck with this kid for a power source –which he totally should have thought of before he started tempting Stiles over to the dark side.

Stiles places his hands on his knees and closes his eyes. "Go away. I'm communing with nature."

He keeps his eyes closed for a long moment, listening to the stillness around him. There's no wind this afternoon, and the low humidity trapped by the forest clings to his skin in a thin film that reminds him of summer hikes with his parents. His mother always insisted on them. She was from the desert of LA, she'd say, and they'd better be grateful to have a forest on their doorstep and take advantage of it while they can.

There's no wind right now, but he wants wind chimes out here. She always loved wind chimes, the big, long ones that clang together only occasionally, their low tones warm and soothing.

He wonders what she'd think if she could see him now. She'd be sad, maybe a little disappointed, yet maybe even a little proud, too. She'd probably be learning right alongside him, and he wouldn't need Peter's claws digging into his skin to drag him back to reality, wouldn't need any of Peter's stupid books, because she'd know what to do. She'd figure it out. She was good at figuring things out, just like his dad.

She was even better at figuring out people. She'd have caught Stiles running around with werewolves back before they'd even killed Peter, probably would have started to ask questions as soon as she heard Stiles had hit Melissa's car.

If his mother was alive, a lot of things would be different.

He opens his eyes and looks around, expecting Peter to be back in his spot under that tree at the edge of the clearing, but he's nowhere in sight. He looks around and considers calling out, but he _had_ told Peter to go away.

He's probably run off to eat Bambi.

Stiles grimaces and levitates a random rock just because he can, feeling a little relieved as magic twists under his skin, warm and humming. He calls the rock over to hover in front of his face and examines it. It's the color of pale sand, speckled with tiny crystals and black dots. It's a little smaller than his fist, almost flat on the bottom and curving upward in a lopsided half-sphere. He releases it with his magic, a sudden coolness in his limbs as the magic fades just beneath his consciousness, and lets it fall into his waiting palm.

He closes his eyes and summons his magic again, hand clenching around the rock. Magic slides back into his limbs, humming just beneath the surface of his skin, and he follows the whispering halo of it to the power thrumming beneath his body. He doesn't have to touch the sapling this time to follow it to the core of the Nemeton, a roiling abyss of power that calls to his bones.

He falls into it, and the heated amalgam of writhing life and hushed death curls around him and drags him down like he belongs there.

 

o-o-o

 

He's warm and sated and safe, like he's suspended in hot bathwater except he can _breathe_ and breathe easy. Something niggles at him, tries to take him away, but he wants to stay. He wants to stay so very badly.

The Nemeton twists and seeps away from him like a tightly wrapped blanket being unwound and stolen away from him, and he tries to pull it back and wrap it around himself again, but it slips between his fingertips like the wind, leaving him cold and vulnerable. Empty.

He hears a quiet gasp of air as the last of the Nemeton falls away from him, leaving him shivering and wrecked, and it's only when he opens his eyes that he realizes the gasp came from himself. He blinks and wraps his arms around his torso, his t-shirt offering little in the way of warmth as the world comes back into focus around him, a shock of dim sunlight and sharp edges. He half-expects everything around him to start bleeding together.

A violent shiver wracks his body, and Peter steps into his line of vision and leans in to peer at him, hands on his knees. "How do you feel?" he asks.

Stiles swallows, taking a moment to answer. "Cold," he says, fingers clenching in his shirt and goose bumps pebbling on his arms. The sun beating down on him should offer warmth, but it pales in comparison to the cold shock of magic burning under his skin like electricity.

Eyes narrowed, Peter reaches out for his face.

"Don't!"

Peter freezes, fingers an inch away from Stiles's cheek. Stiles leans away from it, saying, "I just—" but he's not sure what to say. He shakes his head, thinking.

He shoos an annoyed Peter out of his space without touching him and stands up to pace and put feeling back into his limbs, feeling shaky and light-headed, like he's had too much caffeine. He looks down at his empty hands and sees the rock from earlier sitting on the Nemeton. He presses his lips together, nostrils flaring, and twists his right hand, fingers dancing in the shape of the levitation spell. The rock shoots straight up and disappears past the clouds. "Uh…." Huh. He watches as the rock plummets back down, a tiny little speck in the sky, and tries to ease it over a few feet midair so it doesn't brain him. It veers sharply to the side and disappears from sight instead, never to be seen again.

So. Supposedly a levitation spell, but more like telekinesis. Very nice.

He blinks and holds a fist in front of his face. "This. This is where I wanted it. Right here." He shakes his head.

Good thing he stuck with levitation instead of conjuring fire. That could've been bad.

Peter sighs. "You should probably go home and rest."

Stiles raises his eyebrows. "Rest?" He feels like he's about to vibrate out of his skin.

Peter crosses his arms and judges him. "You look like you're about to keel over and die."

Stiles shrugs. "Doesn’t feel like it." But he glances warily at the Nemeton and crouches down in front of it to squint at the green stalk in the middle. There's no hugely noticeable difference about it, no extra leaves or added height, but it looks a little less thin, a little less crushable. He hums noncommittally and stands up, his legs aching in protest like an old man's. "Okay, fine, let's go," he says, and wanders in the general direction of the road, not particularly caring whether or not Peter chooses to follow. Peter does.

"So where'd you disappear to?" Stiles asks some time later as he narrowly avoids tripping over a hole in the ground. The woods is a lot less creepy during the day, he'll give it that.

Peter glances him at him, probably considering the merits of pretending he doesn't know what Stiles is talking about, and Stiles looks at him expectantly. "Just wandering around," he says.

Stiles rolls his eyes at the vague answer but lets it go. Almost. He side-eyes Peter and narrows his eyes. "Did you eat Bambi?"

Peter licks his lips obscenely. "He was delicious." When Stiles stares at him, scandalized, Peter rolls his eyes. "No, I didn't eat Bambi." He smiles wickedly at Stiles's visible relief. "I ate his mother."

Stiles jabs his finger at him. "Oh my God, shut up, you are—you are so not funny! God." He stuffs his hands into his armpits, still freezing, and hurries past the psycho, eager to get back to his nice warm Jeep so he can hurry home and hyperventilate in the shower.

"If you would just get over those pesky morals, you'd think I was hilarious," Peter says off-handedly.

Stiles squints at him. "Seriously? 'Pesky morals'? That's what you're going with?"

Peter shrugs. "I'm just being honest."

"You're ridiculous," Stiles grumbles and plods on. "Ridiculous and completely insane. I can't believe you wanted me to sacrifice a baby deer."

And there's Peter, right in front of him, and Stiles has to rear back so they don't make physical contact. "Dude!" Stiles yelps. He wraps his arms tighter around himself, cold-burning body straining to contain the power thrumming through it. 

"Do you really think your little meditation trick will be enough, Stiles?" Peter says. "Look at you now. How often do you think you'll be able to handle this?"

Stiles grinds his teeth together and stares Peter in the eye. "I guess we'll find out," he says as he tries to duck around Peter without touching him. Peter reaches for him but hesitates when Stiles cringes away. "Seriously, no touching right now," Stiles warns. "I don't know what'll happen, and I really don't wanna find out." He almost grins. Bright side: watching Peter try to restrain himself from shoving Stiles around is going to be hilarious.

Against all expectations, Peter beams, and that smile should be made illegal. Seriously, thank God Peter isn't a constantly smiling, happy-go-lucky type of guy. Stiles would probably have died of a heart attack by now. He eyes Stiles up and down, still smiling. "So touching later then. After this wears off."

Stiles blinks and swallows, Peter's eyes tracking the movement of his throat. "I didn't say that," he says in a rush.

Peter steps towards him like he isn't some sort of mystery pipe bomb. Stiles forces himself to hold his ground. "No," Peter says, leaning in. "But you'll enjoy it."

Stiles blinks slowly, a little bit of heat seeping into his body, his thoughts moving at the speed of molasses, and before he can get himself together, Peter's walking away, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. Stiles breathes in deeply, gathering himself, and trots to catch up. He stays silent the rest of the way to the car.

Hand on the door of his Jeep, he's just about to ask Peter one last time if he can borrow any more of his books when an echoing, ear-piercing scream interrupts him, shrill and harsh. He claps his hands over his ears, but it doesn't do any good. _Jesus Christ, what the hell_ , he wants to say, but he _knows_ that voice.

The moment he wonders if his ears are bleeding yet, the screaming stops. He looks up, and he doesn't have to ask Peter if he heard it, too, because the werewolf's looking back at him, hands coming away from his ears. "Call her," Peter says before Stiles can even open his mouth.

He pulls his phone out only for it to go off with a group text from Lydia, telling them to come to her house right now. "I gotta go," Stiles says, opening his door and stepping in.

Peter's opening his passenger door and getting in before he can protest. "Dude, what the fuck?" Stiles asks even as he starts the engine.

"You're my ride," Peter says simply. Which is true. Stiles had made Peter ride shotgun on the way to the woods so he could explain the different rituals he'd read up on.

Before Stiles can respond, his phone rings. He answers it as he backs onto the road. "What's wrong?"

"Are you coming?" Lydia asks, voice shaking and hoarse.

"Yeah, on my way. What's wrong?"

"I—" Lydia's voice catches. "…I think I'm next," she whispers. "Are you with Scott?"

"No."

"Call him. I'll call Allison."

"Okay." Stiles nods and hits the accelerator. "Do you have mountain ash?"

"No," she whisper-snaps. "No one's even told me how to use it!" she shouts in a tone both pissed off and panicked. "Just hurry!"

She hangs up before he can say anything else.

"Fuck," Stiles says, eyes darting between his phone and the road, thumb just missing the home button and hitting the settings instead.

Peter plucks the phone out of his hand. "Peter—!"

"I'll call Scott. You focus on not dying in a car accident."

"I'm not gonna fucking—" he cuts himself off as he hears the phone ring, now on speaker, thank God.

"Stiles?" Scott asks, panicking. "Where are you? I just heard Lydia, and I thought you were at Derek's, but—"

Well, fuck.

"I'm on my way to Lydia's," Stiles cuts in. "She's next, Scott."

There's a pause, one in which Stiles blows through a red light without pause, and then, "I'm coming."

"Are you close enough?" Stiles asks. The cross country meet should be over by now, but….

"The bus'll get to school in five minutes," Scott says tightly.

"I don't know if she has time for that," Stiles says, tapping his index finger against the wheel. He can feel the magic in him weakening the further he gets from the Nemeton, but he holds onto it out of desperation, feeling it like taut lines of steel webbing beneath his skin.

"It's Lydia," Scott says. "She'll figure something out."

And Stiles, God, Stiles wishes he had that same faith in people, especially her. He glances at Peter, who's looking just as skeptical as Stiles feels. Stiles glances down at the phone then back to the road. "I hope so," he says softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Yes, I knew Malia was a werecoyote when I wrote this chapter, but her "favorite food" moment came after, and omg, it was such a gift. I started cracking up so hard when she said her favorite food was deer, you have no idea. I think my family was legitimately worried.
> 
> *whispers (again)* IT'S MY BIRTHDAY WOOOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
> 
> Coming next week on Round Robin: Your author goes to Hell.


	11. Fork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fork: a simultaneous attack by a single piece on two (or more) of the opponent's pieces (or other direct target, such as a mate threat)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for a tiny bit of bloodplay.
> 
> *cackles*

"Don't answer the door, Lydia," Allison says over the phone, but Lydia walks down the stairs anyway, stuffing her air horn into her bra as she goes. 

"What do you expect me to do? Run away?" Lydia scoffs. She'd seen Aiden in the security feed filming the front door. There's no way she'd be able to get away from him. She needs her hands free, and she needs Allison talking. She tucks the phone into her pocket, still on. Allison will have to deal. 

The closer she gets to the door, the more her throat tightens, like she's swallowed a lump of peanut butter, not out of silly nerves, but out of something deeper and fragile. She ignores the feeling and opens the door. Aiden opens his mouth to say something undoubtedly stupid, so she sprays him in the eyes with her wolfsbane pepper spray and slams the door in his snarling face. 

She runs into the kitchen and turns the volume up on her phone so that Allison's voice is almost as audible as it would be on speakerphone. 

Aiden pounds on the door instead of knocking it down, and if every instinct of hers wasn't screaming at her to run, she'd wonder if it's not him she has to worry about. 

She sets the phone, Allison's tinny voice still calling out for her, down in the stairwell of the basement and sprays pepper spray in the air over it, leaving the door open a crack before she runs back into the kitchen and hides behind the island, holding a dishtowel over her chest in the vague hopes that it muffles her heartbeat just a little more. She can only hope it's enough. She's not used to riding on hope alone. She kind of hates it, to be honest. There are too many unknown variables in this new life of hers, and it makes her want to scream. 

She jumps as the front door crashes to the floor. Aiden's voice calls out, "Lydia! Lydia, I just wanna make sure you're all right!" 

She covers her mouth with her free hand to muffle her breath. 

"Lydia?" he asks, closer. 

She peeks around the island and sees Aiden's backside approaching the stairwell, his sneakers unnervingly silent on the wooden floor of the kitchen. Her hand tightens around the pepper spray as his hand touches the doorknob. It's now or never.

He pulls open the door, and as he tilts his head down to look at her phone, she nearly hesitates, heart thundering in her chest, but then she bolts toward him, dropping the towel and pulling out the air horn. 

Right as he turns around, growling her name with a face that definitely spells ill intentions, she blows the air horn in his face, startling him into clapping his hands over his ears and screwing his already red and teary eyes shut. She sprays the pepper spray in his face again with her other hand and shoves him down the stairs, slamming the door shut on his tumbling body. 

She runs for what's left of the front door, adrenaline and hope pumping through her. Somehow, her plan worked, although it means the probable loss of her cell phone. That's unfortunate, but she can always get a new one. Panting, she runs over the fallen door, tilting unevenly with her feet, and through the doorway. If she can just make it into the open, her chances of surviving will— 

A hand yanks her backward, tearing her third favorite top, and she gasps as clawed hands whip her around and wrap around her throat. "That was resourceful," the woman holding her says. Ethan stands behind her. "But still not enough," the woman says, twisting Lydia's wrist and forcing Lydia to drop the pepper spray. Another burst of adrenaline rushing through her system, Lydia presses down on the air horn. It's pointed at the ground, but the entire neighborhood should hear it. 

Ethan winces, a dog starts barking, and the woman purses her lips and shakes her head a little at the sound. It's still not enough of a distraction for Lydia to twist away. The woman takes her hand away from her throat to steal the air horn away, too. Lydia sucks in a breath and tries to pull away. "Everyone heard that," Lydia says, trying to keep her voice from wavering. "They'll start looking any second." 

The woman—Kali, they'd called her at Stiles's house—scowls and begins dragging Lydia into the house, Ethan following closely behind. "Then best not to do this with an audience." 

Lydia struggles and squirms, digging her feet in especially when they reach the broken down door, but the fight goes out of her a little when she glances up and sees the camera in the corner, dismantled. Their security system's down. 

She has no idea what she's doing or what she even is, and now she's going to be murdered by werewolves. This just –God, did she torture and murder people in a past life or something? She never signed up for this. 

"What do you want?" she asks. "I—I'm one of the smartest people you'll ever meet. I can do more for you alive than dead." 

Kali drags her towards the kitchen, saying, "But you're not really a person, are you?" 

That. That hurts more than it should, and Lydia falters in her struggling. 

"Brains we might be able to use," Kali continues as she drags Lydia around the corner of the counter, out of sight of the front door. "But another pack's banshee—not really." Her claws come out, and her hand comes flashing towards Lydia's chest, aiming right for her heart. Ethan leans by the sink and watches, expression cold and stony. 

"Wait!" Lydia says, and Kali pauses, claws an inch away from Lydia's chest. "I don't know anything about being a banshee. I can't do anything. I wouldn't be able to put you in danger." At least, not by being a banshee. As herself, she'd make sure of it. 

"You're lying," Kali says. 

Since when did wolves become lie detectors? 

Ethan perks up. "Someone's coming," he says, and then he disappears in a blur through the kitchen door jamb. 

Kali narrows her eyes, and next thing Lydia knows, her claws are puncturing the vulnerable skin of her chest, five stinging points shoving into her sternum and between her ribs in one quick snap. Her sternum creaks, and a pained scream rips out of Lydia's throat, hoarse and shrill. 

Kali pauses with her claws still pressing into Lydia while she screams. Kali trembles, sending sharp shocks of pain through Lydia as her scream dies down. Kali narrows her eyes and brings her free hand to her left ear. It comes away bloody, and Kali growls in anger, eyes flashing red. The claws in Lydia's skin bite in deeper, and Lydia can't believe this is it, can't believe this is as far as she's gotten because she was meant for so  _much more_ ; she had so many plans, but here she is, losing it all to a werewolf, of all things, and all because she was too blind to notice the supernatural world that was always hiding under her own damn skin— 

Ethan's body flies through the doorway and slams against the back wall, slumping to the floor. He groans but stays put. 

Kali snarls, but despite her effort, her claws don't go any deeper. Her eyes go wide, and she shakes as she pushes her body into it, sending more pain down Lydia's taut spine, but Kali still doesn't rip her heart out, even when she growls, low and rumbling, eyes darting towards the doorway, and Lydia has no idea what's going on, but she's still alive somehow. God, somehow she's still alive. She's got a chance, and she's taking it, damnit. 

Lydia leans backwards, her spine curling back over the counter, the edge of it already digging into her vertebrae, and Kali doesn't,  _can't_  move with her, motionless claws peeling slickly out of Lydia's skin as she pulls herself off them. 

Ethan's body slides up the wall and hangs there against it, feet inches off the floor, his panicked eyes blinking open, and Lydia doesn't know who or what's controlling the two werewolves' bodies, but she's so not staying to find out. She backs away toward the dining room, glancing toward the back door, but then she hears a grim breath of air. "Kali," Stiles says. 

She looks back at the kitchen, and there's Stiles standing in the door jamb, wan face expressionless except for his too dark eyes. He makes a convoluted motion with his right hand, and Kali goes flying backward and hits the stainless steel fridge with a harsh crack. The fridge slams against the wall from the invisible force pressing down on Kali. She snarls weakly and shudders as she strains to move, but she doesn't move an inch. Stiles just watches her, dark, empty eyes unblinking. He turns his head just enough to make Lydia wonder if this is actually him. 

"Stiles?" she asks softly. 

Stiles jerks around to looks at her, life suddenly coming back into his face. "Lydia—" His eyes jerk down to her bleeding skin. "Are you okay?" 

Kali twitches, head tugging away from the fridge, and Stiles's face twists in a wordless snarl as he shoves her back against the fridge. The steel doors groan as they indent under Kali's body. 

"Are you?" Lydia screeches, staring at Stiles. He's pale and sweaty, dark circles underlining his eyes. He's standing taller than usual, body taut with anger. She's never seen him like this before. 

His lips twitch in a wry grimace. "That's debatable," he says, voice lacking his usual inflection. His eyes drift down to the raw, bleeding wounds on her chest again. "You should get that taken care of." 

Kali snarls as the pressure on her chest makes one of her ribs crack. Lydia cringes and starts backing away from Stiles. This isn't the flailing, energetic ball of sarcasm and intuition she remembers, and for all that he's saved her life, she's not sure if she like the change. 

Kali wheezes, and Stiles turns his back on Lydia to observe her. "You probably shouldn't see this." Kali's throat caves in. 

"Stiles—" Lydia chokes, but then Aiden, red-eyed and furious, bursts out of the basement, gets shot through the shoulder by an arrow, and tackles Stiles anyway. They fall against the counter where Lydia was just a moment ago, and Kali and Ethan slump to the floor. Everything seems to speed up around her. 

Ethan stands up and jerks towards Stiles and Aiden, only to falter when an arrow buries itself into his stomach. 

Aiden gets his claws around Stiles's throat, but Stiles grabs his wrists, and Aiden's face whitens, hands going slack. Stiles grins and asks, "Remember this?" Faint silver lines flow from his fingers around Aiden's skin and twist up Stiles's arms like vines, lending his eyes an eerie glow. 

Ethan snarls and punches Stiles in the face, knocking him to the floor and away from Aiden, but before the twins can do anything more, Allison's in the kitchen, electrocuting Aiden with a cattle prod and kicking Ethan away. 

It's like a dance, watching them fight. Ethan's faster than Allison but clumsy in the tiny kitchen area even after he rips the arrow out of his body, and Allison darts in and around him like a vicious ballerina, ducking and arching and jabbing right before he can respond. Aiden gets back to his feet, but before he can do anything, Stiles twists his hand and slams him against the basement door. 

Stiles is shivering, Lydia notices. She moves closer. "Stiles? Are you okay?" 

"I'm fine," he says, gritting his teeth. Aiden groans as something in his body cracks. 

Allison cries out as Ethan's claws score her sides, but it only drives her harder, and next thing Lydia knows, Ethan's on the ground with a dagger to his throat, and Aiden's wheezing against the door, his ears, nose, and eyes bleeding. Lydia can hear the twins' impending deaths, a dull whine in her ears. 

Scott roars. 

 

o—o—o 

 

When Scott and Isaac arrive, the situation starts to look up. They've totally beaten the alphas and saved Lydia, so that's great. The aftermath, however, is not. Not knowing what else to do, Scott decides to drive the twins and Kali out of Beacon Hills and dump them in a ditch somewhere, which, really, Stiles argues, won't be any more effective than beating the twins to a pulp and locking them up in the school was, but whatever, he's not the True Alpha –even though Scott's eyes are still fucking golden—what does he know? 

Stiles doesn't feel resentful. He doesn't feel resentful at all. 

It's then Kali makes her move, apparently fully healed and rearing to go, and takes Stiles hostage. 

So the situation isn't really looking up anymore. 

Kali keeps her claws poised to rip out his jugular and forces them all to drop their weapons and release the twins. The twins stagger off towards the front door and disappear, which is just –wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. 

"Do something!" Lydia hisses at Stiles. 

"I'm trying!" he hisses back, but his magic's run down again, a mere trickle of what it was before the fight, and all the anger driving it before has faded into exhaustion. 

Kali says, "Stay where you are, and I won't kill him." Her claws plunge into the back of his neck and prick into the vertebrae of his spine, a sharp burst of pain that makes the world roar and go white around him as she burrows into his mind like a parasite. 

 

o—o—o 

 

Ruthless claws plunge into his center and tear at his magic, and his body writhes in agony. He writhes and tries to throw her off, but Kali just buries her claws deeper into his magic, hooking into it. She  _tugs_ , and he can feel the Nemeton shriek in rage as she pries away the roots twining around him, but it's too far away, too weak, and Stiles is too worn out. 

He fights because he'll never stop fighting. He fights even as a cold, empty void drives itself between himself and his magic, leaving him ragged and broken. It hurts. It hurts so fucking much, and it's so unfair because he's only just found it. He's never been as strong as he needs to be, and this is  _it_ , this is his only chance, and she's stealing it away— 

He knows he's losing, so he shoves himself at her out of spite and seeks out the most vulnerable part of her for him to dig his teeth into. He finds it, an angry spot of sorrow, pulsing and neglected and skittering away from him like a frightened spider. He throws himself into it. 

Jennifer's blood-choked gasp fills his ears, desperate and betrayed. 

Kali snarls and wrenches his magic away, cleaving him from himself as Jennifer's gasp fades away. 

He's not dying this time, but the blank void hollowing him out makes him wish he was. 

_Oh, don't be so dramatic._

_Peter?_

Peter's scorching rage and possessiveness washes over him and slices through Kali's hold, ignoring Stiles's spasm of pain as he pries Kali's proverbial claws out of Stiles's mind. Kali turns on Peter, but he slips away from her, taunting as he darts in between her defenses and savages her weaknesses. 

Stiles gathers himself together. Clumsy and fumbling as he is, the magic still belongs to him and him to it. It winds itself back around and through him, a balm filling in the raw, aching gaps of him. 

When Peter finds the same weak spot Stiles found earlier, Jennifer's gasp and shocked "Please!" echo in their heads, and Kali rips her claws out of Stiles's spine. 

"Oh, fuck," Stiles breathes, shaking and blinking into awareness. He scrambles away from Kali and ducks behind Scott where he stands with Isaac, Allison, and Lydia, all of them tense and shocked. Gaping, Scott throws a protective arm out in front of Stiles, fingers curling back to graze Stiles's arm. 

Stiles stares, wide-eyed, as Peter calmly pulls his claws out of Kali's neck. Kali twitches, expression hollow and panicked, and bolts. 

No one goes after her. 

Peter wipes his claws on his handkerchief, glancing up at Stiles as if to say,  _Well?_

Stiles can't find anything to say, still trying to get over the terror of having his magic nearly ripped away from him. Unexpected bonus: he doesn't think he'll ever have trouble sensing it again. Nearly having it stolen has pinpointed for him exactly how it feels and where it is.

"What the hell just happened?" asks Isaac. God bless him. 

Peter glances at Stiles expectantly, and Stiles meets his unapologetic gaze squarely. The memory of Peter's sheer possessiveness surging through his mind makes his spine tingle with fear and want, and he doesn't really know what to do with it. He shouldn't find comfort in it, shouldn't want it, but, God, he does, and that terrifies him. He touches the back of his aching neck gingerly. He's really sick and tired of having werewolves stick their claws in him. "Peter and Kali played tug of war with my brain," he mumbles, wincing as his fingers come back bloody. 

Scott makes a noise of sympathy and looks around the kitchen, biting his lip. 

"There's a first aid kit in the bathroom down the hall," Lydia tells Scott. He disappears, and Lydia looks back at Stiles. "Peter was in your head?" she asks softly, her eyes concerned and alert. 

Stiles winces. He really should be more concerned about this, but…. "Not like—not in a bad way, surprisingly enough." Lydia narrows her eyes, so Stiles explains further, "Kali was trying to take my magic away—because apparently that's something werewolves can do. Who knew?" Stiles shrugs and looks at the fascinating granite countertop of the island. "Peter stopped her." 

"What else did he do?" Allison asks, somehow making it sound more like a warning than a question. 

Stiles stands up a little taller and meets her gaze head-on. "He didn't have time to do anything else." He grinds his teeth together, the uncomfortable idea of Peter literally messing with his head making him want to vomit. He wouldn't put it past him, but... Stiles has a feeling he'd be a blubbering vegetable right now had it not been for Peter's interference. And he's being honest when he says Peter didn't have enough time. It all went by so fast, and really, Peter was more in Kali's head, right? 

Oh God, Stiles really hopes everything he remembers is what actually happened. 

Scott comes back with the first aid kit, momentarily distracting the group, and starts taking care of the wounds Kali left. Stiles grimaces and cringes under his administrations but otherwise lets Scott do his thing. 

Isaac's the first to finally address Peter to his face. "Why are you even here?" He looks back around the group. "Did somebody call him? Is that something we do?" 

"No," Scott says, and he leans over Stiles's shoulder to look at him, eyes narrowed in that surprisingly perceptive way he does sometimes. Uh oh. "Stiles?" 

Stiles gives him a nervous, lopsided grin. "Well, funny story…" 

"Stiles," Scott says, half warningly and half Oh-God-why-me. He leans back and continues dabbing antibiotic ointment around Kali's claw marks. 

Peter sniffs a little in amusement. 

Stiles sighs. "Peter's been loaning me magic books. He was with me when Lydia called." 

"You were supposed to be with Derek," Scott says accusingly. 

"I never said that," Stiles says, pointing back at Scott. 

"Yes, you—!" 

"I said I was skipping the meet to work on my magic, which was one hundred percent true, and really, also something I need to keep doing because I have been having Serious Issues with it and would really like those to go away because we have more important things to worry about, like, oh, you know, the Alphas who are clearly not gone. Speaking of which, Scott, buddy, what are we supposed to do about that?" 

Scott sighs behind him. "…I don't know," he admits, and Stiles knows he's delayed the impending interrogation for now, at least. Scott tapes a piece of gauze onto Stiles's neck. "Maybe… maybe they'll negotiate with us now. Now that we've proven we can hurt them back." 

"Yeah, and while we're at it why don't we truss you up on a silver platter and stick an apple in your mouth." Stiles shakes his head and shrugs helplessly. "Scott, no. Being nice isn't working. We have to get rid of them." 

"He's right," Lydia says softly. 

Scott pats down the tape on Stiles's neck and pulls away, zipping up the first aid kit, looking frustrated. A violent shiver racks Stiles's body, and Scott's expression transitions into worry. "I'll think about it," he says. "You should go home and get some rest. Here." He unzips his hoodie and throws it over Stiles's shoulders. 

"Dude," Stiles says to Scott in protest. The corners of Scott's eyes crinkle right before the hood falls over Stiles's eyes. "Thanks," Stiles drawls, unable to see. 

He shoves his arms into the hoodie and pushes the hood out of his eyes right as Peter says, "There's something you should know." Oh joy. "I wasn't able to glean much from Kali, but they had something planned besides this. They wanted to make a point today." 

"I think we made a pretty good point ourselves, to be honest," Isaac says. 

Allison huffs, and Isaac eyes her nervously. "And by we I mean you," he corrects. 

Allison smiles softly. "And Stiles. Stiles did, too." 

Stiles looks at her, blinking, and all he sees is pride and gratefulness. It's not what he would have expected from her, but he likes it. He smiles back a little. 

They talk and try to figure out what the alphas might be planning, but Peter doesn't offer them anything more useful to work with, and Scott tells Stiles to go home as soon as he starts nodding off against the counter. He starts following after Stiles until Lydia calls him back with a "I don't think so, Scott. You're staying here to explain to my mother why we need a new fridge." Scott groans and whines, but Lydia puts her foot down and that's that. Just before Stiles manages to escape, Allison asks why Peter's following him out, and he passes her bullshit meter by the skin of his teeth with a mumbled truth-excuse that he's Peter's ride. 

They pass a police car as they turn off Lydia's street, its sirens on and lights flashing. Stiles starts to curse–all the deputies know him and his Jeep by this point—only to squint at the driver, a young Captain America lookalike Stiles doesn't recognize. That's not a good sign. He considers calling Scott, but he ought to have heard the sirens by now. He calls his dad to update him on what's happened at Lydia's, and when his dad starts asking too many questions about Stiles's health and where he's going and how long he'll be gone, he distracts him with vagueness and by asking about mini-Captain America. It turns out mini-Cap actually is a deputy and not a crazy assassin-hunter like that one dude who tried to kill Isaac, so that's good. 

By the time he gets to Peter's apartment, he's ready to crawl under his blankets and sleep for a year, but Peter has books and Stiles has shit to figure out. He grabs the only readable book he can find in the pile on the table, one written in Middle English, and curls up on the couch with it, draping Scott's sweater over himself like a blanket. "Don't get too comfortable or you'll fall asleep," Peter comments from the kitchen. 

"I'd sooner fall asleep on an active volcano," Stiles grumbles, and a flying granola bar hits him in the head. "Ow! Watch it, douchebag." 

He winds up crashing on Peter's couch anyway. 

 

o—o—o 

 

Feeling moderately well-rested, he wakes up to his stomach grumbling. He keeps his eyes closed and considers his options: a) hope Peter's nowhere in sight and try to sneak out, or b) don't sneak out, deal with Peter, and hide forever from Scott's inevitable interrogation. 

The sound of typing from the direction of the loveseat rules out option  _a_  and makes Stiles wonder if Peter's been watching him sleep. The fact that Stiles finds that possibility only mildly annoying is probably a bad sign, but there have been so very many bad signs in the past two years that Stiles has always rolled with, so really, what's one more? 

So much therapy necessary, so few options. Maybe Stiles should major in psychology so he can be his own therapist. For instance, he'd probably be able to tell himself with confidence that yes, it is weird that he's relieved to  _not_ wake up with an actual blanket draped over him, and yes, he should run away as far as possible from the supernatural serial killer who gave him a blow job that one time and keeps making out with him. 

Stiles has never been especially good at avoiding what's bad for him, though, so maybe he should just accept the fact that he's doomed. He can't really imagine himself in a normal relationship, anyway. He'd always been so hooked on Lydia that he'd never really paid much attention to other possibilities, even the few times Scott had told him so-and-so had a crush on him. 

He'd always thought Scott was only trying to make him feel better, but he's beginning to think otherwise now, and he can't really see himself with any of them –not Shauna from middle school, who always ranted about the social politics of figure skating, and not Alex from freshman year, who vowed to wear tie dye every day. What would Stiles even be able to talk about with them? The weather? As for the other people in his high school, they tend to think Stiles is pretty creepy himself, given the chains in his locker and frequent discussion of murder, amongst other mostly supernaturally related things. 

Maybe he could have seen himself with Erica, the Catwoman to his Batman, but she's dead now. And maybe he could have seen himself with Heather, who'd totally believe in werewolves with just a little proof, but she's dead now, too. He definitely can't see himself with Lydia, not after everything that's happened. He'll always love her in his own way, but if they were miraculously in a relationship, he knows he'd expect too much from her and she'd walk all over him, and he… he won't do that to himself. 

He can see himself with Peter, somehow, in bits and pieces, like a mosaic. The sex would be fantastic, and while love wouldn't really apply, devotion would take its place. They'd be terrifying together. 

Stiles is so tired of being vulnerable that he thinks he might appreciate being a little terrifying. 

Perhaps that's the real appeal of Peter –his lack of vulnerability. Stiles can depend on Peter to save his own skin. Stiles can depend on him to stay alive and well. Hell, if Peter dies, he'll probably come back anyway. 

It would be pure relief for Stiles to have someone who he wouldn't need to constantly worry about losing. 

Of course, not being able to lose Peter might be a problem, too. The possessiveness Stiles had felt was overwhelming, and Peter doesn't exactly let things go easily. Then again, neither does Stiles. And Stiles may be no Merlin as of now, but give him some time and he'll be powerful enough to force Peter to leave him alone if worst comes to worst. 

And ultimately, a sexual relationship isn't really what Peter wants, anyway. He wants Stiles's magic and brains. Sex is only a bonus. So they could totally be casual fuck-buddies and break it off at any time. It could work. He can see it now: spend the rest of junior and senior year having crazy hot sex and setting up the basis for Peter's little empire scheme, break off the sex for college and do some more empire-building during the breaks, acquire a significant other, explore the world, get a job, visit Beacon Hills every once and a while to make sure all is well –it'll be great. Simple. His relationship with Peter, whatever it is, won't be very important in the long run. It's just important now because it'll significantly increases his chances of survival and fun for the next year or so. 

So this thing with Peter is totally a thing he can have. No regrets. Generally speaking. 

But first, food. 

Stiles makes a show of stretching languidly, rolling his shoulders, raising his arms over his head and pointing his toes. The typing sounds stop, and Stiles holds back a grin. Peter deserves all the teasing he gets after everything he's put Stiles through. Torso twisting, Stiles licks his lips and opens his eyes, blinking, to find Peter's assessing gaze on him. "Time is it?" Stiles asks, bringing his arms back down and yawning. The yawning's unintentional. 

Peter glances at his laptop. "A quarter after three." 

Stiles rubs his eyes and swings his legs off the couch. "That's it?" He shakes his head and pushes himself up as Peter gives a little one-shoulder shrug. "Please tell me you have more food." Stiles wanders into the kitchen and examines the contents of Peter's pantry. Whole-wheat crackers, tea bags, coffee grounds, peanut butter, hazelnut spread, dried fruit, canned soup, pasta noodles, unopened jars of spaghetti and vodka sauce –he's starting to think Peter's some sort of health nut when he spots the giant pack of Reese's cups hiding in the back of the bottom drawer. His eyebrows furrow. Weird. Also, totally his now. 

He leans against the wall separating the kitchen and living/dining area with his stolen goods and watches Peter work. "What are you even doing?" Stiles asks around a mouthful of chocolate and peanut butter. He winces. This is probably not how one begins the process of seduction. "Research?" 

What does Peter do with his time: the ultimate question. Stiles stuffs another Reese's cup in his mouth. Fuck seduction. He'll flaunt his magic in Peter's face, and Peter's power fetish alone will make him wanna fuck Stiles into oblivion. 

"Stocks," Peter answers, not looking back at him. 

"Eugh," Stiles says, crossing and uncrossing his feet. He decides that, yeah, seduction can wait; he's super thirsty right now. Really. Really really. 

He gets himself a glass of water in the kitchen and absolutely does not spend five minutes gripping the sides of the sink as he soothes his totally nonexistent nerves. Everything's cool. He's totally fine. He's really got nothing to worry about. Seriously, he had sex with Lydia Martin. And Peter may have the whole emperor-wannabe thing going for him, but Lydia's gonna be the most competent president of the United States ever, and Peter's got nothin' on that. So Stiles has nothing to worry about. He's got this. 

He takes a deep breath and turns around, half expecting Peter to be hovering in the doorway with a sly remark at the ready. Instead he finds Peter right where he left him, legs stretched out across the loveseat 

So. "Are you working on anything important?" 

Peter glances up, scrutinizing Stiles as he rocks forward onto his toes and back onto his heels. "Define important." 

"Life-threatening." 

Peter narrows his eyes at him. "Not particularly." 

Fortifying himself, Stiles inhales deeply only to stop when he sees Peter doing the same, nostrils flaring and a slow smirk spreading across his face. Stiles goes pink when he realizes what Peter's doing, which only seems to feed Peter's smugness. 

Peter closes his laptop and rotates in his seat, setting his feet on the ground as he moves the laptop to the coffee table. He leans back and rests his arms across the back of the seat, leaving himself open for Stiles to back down or make his move. "Why?" Peter asks, lifting his chin ever so slightly, daring Stiles to go through with it. 

Stiles doesn't have to do anything. He could wait for Peter to push into his space again. It's bound to happen sooner rather than later…. Or he could take the initiative for once and prove he's not a toy Peter can push around all the time. 

Fuck it. 

Stiles walks forward. "Because you keep making all these promises," he says, voice low with a hint of a tremor in it. He settles down astride Peter's lap, shoving his right knee in between Peter's thigh and the arm of the loveseat. "And so far I'm not seeing much follow-through." Not really sure what to do with his hands, he wavers a moment, but Peter makes up Stiles's mind for him when he opens his mouth to talk. Stiles tangles his hands in Peter's hair and smashes their lips together, swallowing Peter's words before they can leave his throat. 

At the start it's clumsier and wetter than anything else, with Peter slow to respond like he's waiting for Stiles to do better. Curling over Peter, Stiles relaxes into it and works at coaxing Peter into reacting. Peter's lips move only enough to encourage him to keep going, returning Stiles's fervor with conservative little nips and tugs, his hands drifting down Stiles's back and urging him closer. He pulls away right as Peter starts to take control of the kiss, and Peter's hands weave into his hair and hold him in place, leaving Stiles to murmur against his lips, "It really makes me wonder, Peter," he inhales deeply, just out of breath, and slides his hands down Peter's abs to his belt buckle, "if all you do is talk." 

Stiles glances up to meet Peter's amused eyes and falters as Peter grabs him by his hips. "Does it really," Peter murmurs and grinds up against him, the friction making Stiles's cock jump and the rasp of denim on denim loud against the backdrop of his surprised gasp. Peter smirks and pulls Stiles down as he grinds up again, making Stiles's mouth drop open. His claws prick the delicate skin of Stiles's hips as he watches Stiles's face intently, and it should terrify Stiles that Peter has his claws out and making indents in Stiles's skin, but all it does is make Stiles's head droop forward as want shoots up his spine. 

Peter releases Stiles's hips, leaving Stiles ungrounded. Stiles's hands drop to Peter's biceps for balance, and Peter tips Stiles's chin up to look him in the eye. His other hand slides under Stiles's shirt, rucking it up as he drags his claws up Stiles's spine in stinging, sharp lines that make Stiles shudder and bite down on his bottom lip to hold back a moan. Peter smirks. "Remind me, Stiles, what was it you were suggesting?" 

Stiles musters up a scowl even as Peter's palm flattens against the middle of his back and urges him closer. "Oh, shut the fuck up—" 

Peter cuts him off with a bruising kiss while his mouth's half-open so that Stiles feels Peter's tongue against his teeth as soon as their mouths come together, and honestly, Stiles really should have known better than to let Peter bait him. 

Stiles tries to take control of the kiss –because he initiated this, damnit, so he should be the one to shock Peter into submission. Seriously, that's how this is supposed to work, right? 

Instead, Peter plunders his mouth, deep and rough, and draws sound after sound out of Stiles until Stiles has to admit to himself that he was deluding himself into expecting any differently. When Peter tugs Stiles's head back, barely avoiding the gauze taped onto Stiles's skin, and drags his blunt teeth down the curve of Stiles's neck, he decides he doesn't really mind. 

Peter works him over, sucking bruises into his skin and grinding up against him in languid, rhythmic thrusts. Stiles rocks down into it until he's panting and aching, thighs spasming with effort. Peter grabs him by the hips again and helps him along, speeding up their movements until Stiles is gasping and shaking, his thighs quivering like jelly. "Fuck—" he chokes out, fumbling with his belt buckle. Peter shoves his hands away and works at it for a second, and then he's shoving Stiles's pants and boxers down just enough to grab Stiles's leaking dick. 

"Christ!" Stiles yelps at the sudden heat and pressure around him, and Peter squeezes, grinning sharply as Stiles tries to thrust into his grip. "Peter, come on," he groans. He tries to wrap his hands around Peter's, but Peter swats him away. "Come on, come on, come on," Stiles chants, but it only makes Peter infinitely smugger. 

Peter hums as he circles his thumb ever so slowly around the head of Stiles's dick, spreading precome around and making Stiles thrust uselessly into it as his fingernails bite into Peter's biceps. "You know, I think I like you like this," Peter says casually, tapping his index finger against Stiles's dick in thought. "Needy and begging for me like I'm all there is." He grinds up against Stiles's bare ass and smirks as Stiles bites down on a moan and glares. "I wonder how long you'll last like this." 

"God, you're such an ass," Stiles groans. Peter loosens his grip, and Stiles feels like he's going to fall apart at the seams without anyone there to hold him together. "Please just— _please_ , Peter, come on, I'll do anything." 

He makes a move for Peter's belt, but Peter grabs his wrists, his eyes flashing and his grip vicelike. He holds them off to the sides next to Stiles's hips. "Tell me what you want," Peter says softly, eyes locked with Stiles's. 

"Fuck, Peter, seriously, come on," Stiles breathes, but Peter just raises his eyebrows expectantly, fingers tightening around Stiles's wrists to the point of pain. "I want your hands. I want—I wanna come. I wanna come so bad." Peter tilts his head just so, as if to say he still expects more, expects Stiles to do better, and Stiles slumps forward, eyes hooded. "Fuck, I, whatever you wanna give me, I'll take it. Just please, please, please let me come." 

Peter smiles darkly. "There's a lot I want from you, Stiles," he purrs, and before Stiles can respond, Peter's jerking him off in short, rough strokes, more efficient than teasing, and before Stiles has a chance to do anything other than brace himself against Peter's shoulders, his vision flashes white and he comes with a soft cry, arching into it shamelessly. Panting, he sags against Peter, face pressed into the crook of his neck. 

Peter strokes the back of his head, and Stiles is just about to make fun of him for it when he yanks Stiles's head back by the hair and bucks up against his ass, stealing Stiles's breath away all over again. "Finish what you started," he growls, and Stiles can't tell if it's more of a dare or a threat. 

Stiles blinks sluggishly and considers his options. He could do the easiest thing and return the handjob, or…. 

"Stiles," Peter says dangerously, hand twisting painfully in Stiles's hair. 

"Yeah," Stiles breathes, clambering off Peter's lap, his legs like rubber. "Yeah, okay, just—" He stands in front of Peter, bending his knees to slide to the ground only to realize there isn't enough room for him between Peter's legs and the coffee table. He nudges tentatively at Peter's knee. "Can you just—" 

His cheeks burn, but Peter seems to get the message, spreading his legs, wide and obscene. Stiles licks his lips and takes in the sight. "Take off your shirt," Peter says while Stiles gathers himself. 

"What?" Stiles asks dumbly. 

Peter's lips twitch in amusement as he looks Stiles up and down. "It's got come on it." 

Stiles hadn't thought his cheeks could burn any brighter, but apparently they can. He shrugs out of his shirt as quickly as possible and balls it up before throwing it somewhere behind him. Peter glares at him for it. 

"Sorry," Stiles says with a shrug. He drops to his knees in between Peter's legs, effectively distracting him from his neat-freakiness. Stiles swallows and licks his lips, hands hesitating over Peter's pants. He looks up at Peter. 

"Well?" Peter says expectantly, and it's enough to spur Stiles into action. He fumbles with Peter's belt buckle, fingers only a little clumsier than usual, and undoes Peter's pants. Stiles curls his fingers over the waistlines of Peter's jeans and boxers, Peter lifts his hips obligingly, and Stiles slides them down. 

He licks his lips and stares at Peter's naked cock, wider but a little shorter than his own, straining and hard.   

He glances up at Peter and considers admitting he's never sucked a dick before. 

"Stiles. Get on with it." 

Nah, he decides. He'll wing it, and Peter will never know. 

He braces one hand on Peter's thigh and grabs Peter's dick with the other, then—"Do you have a condom?" 

Peter inhales heavily, eyes narrowing. "Werewolves can't get STD's," he says, voice a little too carefully monitored. 

"Dude, wait, how does that even make sense?" 

Peter rolls his eyes, fingers digging into the arm of the couch. "I'm not drawing you a picture, Stiles. Now suck, or get the hell out." 

Stiles snorts. "Whatever. If you give me an STI I'll kill you again." He takes a long look at Peter's cock then thinks to himself,  _Fuck it_. 

He licks at the head experimentally and tries not to make a face at the vaguely bitter, salty taste. This is why flavored condoms exist, he thinks. When he brings this thought up to Peter several licks and tentative sucks later, Peter doesn't seem so thrilled. "Stiles," he purrs, eyes narrowed, and Stiles knows he's about to be verbally eviscerated, so he swallows Peter's dick down as far as he can before he chokes. His eyes water and he has to beat his gag reflex into submission, but it shuts Peter up, so he counts it a win. 

He sucks hard as pulls off to the head then pushes himself back onto it, bobbing his head over and over until his mouth feels like sandpaper and he has to pull away to breathe. He pants and smacks his lips, trying to summon more saliva. 

"More tongue," Peter suggests, only a little breathless, and Stiles blinks up at him, almost surprised. He'd been so wrapped up in Peter's dick he'd forgotten about Peter himself. He nods, cheeks burning a little, and goes back to work, following Peter's suggestion. 

Soon enough, he presses his tongue to the underside of Peter's erection, and Peter's hands bury themselves in his hair and press him down until his dick hits the back of Stiles's throat. "Mph—" Stiles panics, hands flying to Peter's knees, and Peter gives him only enough slack to ease back and breathe, mouth aching. 

"Peter—!" he tries to snap around a mouthful of pushy bastard as soon as he has enough air, but Peter grunts and drags Stiles back down onto his cock, stopping right before Stiles gags then pulling him back until only the tip of his head is in Stiles's mouth. 

He starts to do it again, but Stiles bites down, barely shy of breaking the skin. Peter hisses, and Stiles glares up at him through his eyelashes, eyes watery and furious. Sure, Peter gave him a pretty great orgasm minutes ago, but that doesn't mean he gets to use Stiles like a ragdoll. Asshole. 

A snarl rips out of Peter's throat, his eyes flashing, and the dull human fingernails in Stiles's hair lengthen into claws, pressing into Stiles's scalp, barely shy of breaking the skin. "Too much for your first time?" Peter hisses through too sharp teeth. 

Stiles grunts in annoyance, making Peter smirk, but he refuses to take the bait. 

"You want someone easy and soft?" Peter asks, voice lowering. The grip in Stiles's hair loosens, and he brushes Stiles's sweaty hair away from his face, his touches gentle and barely there. He leans forward, eyes wide with mocking sympathy, and murmurs sweetly, teeth dull and human, "You want someone to take care of?" 

Stiles growls in frustration and, opening his jaw, shoves himself down on Peter's cock, fingers tightening around Peter's knees. Peter's hands twist back into his hair and hold him in place, his cock nudging the back of Stiles's throat. Stiles hollows his cheeks as best he can and sucks. 

Peter grunts and tugs him up to the head then yanks Stiles back down by the hair. Stiles's mouth comes off with a pop, and Peter cups his jaw, looking down at him, gaze hard. "Use your teeth again, and I'll tear your throat out." He drags his clawed thumb across Stiles's lower lip and presses down, drawing blood with a sharp sting that makes Stiles's heaving lungs stutter. "Understand?" 

Stiles nods jerkily. Peter smiles a little and smooths the pad of his thumb over the cut, making Stiles's lips that much wetter. "Sorry, what was that? I couldn't hear." He presses down on the cut. 

"Yes, Peter," Stiles grinds out around Peter's thumb, and Peter presses down harder, watching him expectantly. The stinging pain make Stiles slump a little, and the fight goes out of him. "I understand." 

Peter smiles. "Good boy," he murmurs, and Stiles can't find it in himself to be annoyed. Peter's hand leaves his chin to feed his still spit-slick dick past Stiles's lips, and then he's holding Stiles's head in place and fucking slowly into his mouth. 

With the faint taste of blood added to the mix and Stiles's whole mouth and throat aching from the raw slide of Peter's cock, Stiles should be hating absolutely every single moment of this. He should be biting down on Peter's cock and storming out in anger. Instead he feels himself relaxing into it, his muscles going slack. 

"Almost, Stiles, a little more pressure," Peter murmurs, and Stiles hollows his cheeks again, sucking in quick little breaths through his nose each time Peter draws back. He tongues at the slit of Peter's head for a moment, and Peter's hands press harder into his scalp as he fucks up into his mouth. "There you go," Peter moans, and Stiles relaxes a little bit more. 

Soon enough, Peter's thrusting rhythmically, and Stiles can barely keep up, light-headed with the need to breathe. He uses his tongue more, hoping to hurry Peter along, and earns himself a drawn out groan. "You're doing so well, Stiles." Peter shudders above him, and it makes Stiles suck a little harder, aching to drag any sound he can out of Peter. "God, your mouth. Always your mouth." Peter grunts and twists his hands in Stiles's hair, and, on a hunch, Stiles fortifies himself, hands curling into fists, and sucks Peter down past the first ring of his throat. 

Peter comes with a long groan, cock twitching and spilling hot down Stiles's throat, and Stiles's knuckles whiten as he fights to suppress the urge to vomit. Peter pulls out just in time, cock glistening with saliva and come. He sinks back into the loveseat, watching in mild amusement as Stiles swallows and practically coughs up a lung. 

Stiles wheezes and falls back against the coffee table, throat sore and dry, and it's painful and awful, but at the same time it's so,  _so_  satisfying. He glances up at Peter, whose eyes are already on him, hooded and pleased. "…You have potential," Peter tells him blithely. 

Loose-limbed and warm, Stiles drops his head back against the coffee table and laughs breathlessly, voice hoarse and used. This is gonna be awesome. Absolutely terrible, but also awesome. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because everyone starts romantic relationships with the one person they're sure won't die on them, right? Right.
> 
> (Again, much thanks to [edragoon](http://edragoon.tumblr.com/) for feedback)
> 
> Also, I'll be honest, this is the first fic I've written legit porn for, so, you know, if it's not doing it for you, or if there's something I can do better, let me know.


	12. En prise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> en prise: describes a piece or pawn exposed to a material-winning capture by the opponent. This is either a hanging piece, an undefended pawn, a piece attacked by a less valuable attacker, or a piece or pawn defended insufficiently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS for bite-rape and using people in general; see end notes for specifics.
> 
> I've added a skip link before the bite-rape so you can skip to the aftermath. (I just learned how. I'm excited!)
> 
> Many thanks to [edragoon](http://edragoon.tumblr.com/) for feedback!

Scott stands in the parking lot of the hospital, staring at his mother's car, dark paint gleaming in the fading light of the sunset. "Scott?" Isaac asks. 

He can't look away from her car. It looks perfectly normal but for the fingermarks dragged through the dirt on the bumper. He wouldn't think anything of it if not for the long, thin streak of dried blood on the ground beside the car. 

Isaac shifts his weight back and forth, eyes darting around the parking lot. "Scott, she isn't here." 

Scott swallows and nods. His mom's blood and terror lingers in the air around him, and the mantle of Deucalion's scent hangs over it all, heavy and thick. Purposeful. "He wanted me to know," Scott says, numb. This can't be happening. 

"What do we do?" 

Scott shakes his head, swallowing. Everyone expects him to know what to do. They listen to him like he knows what the hell is going on. They look at him like he's some paragon of morality. But he's not. He's not anything. He's just a teenager trying to pass high school, and all these things just keep  _happening_  to him. He doesn't know what he's doing. He doesn't know what's right or what's wrong. He doesn't even know how to make his eyes flash a single color. He has no clue what he's doing, and now he can't even ask his mom for advice because she's gone. Taken. 

He was supposed to protect her. 

"Scott?" 

He calls Stiles. 

"Look, dude," Stiles says as soon as he picks up, his voice a little hoarse, and Scott sighs in relief at his friend's guilty cover-up voice. He's safe. "I am so sorry I didn't say anything earlier, but I swear this is so not a big deal—" 

It's a big deal, whatever it is, but not urgent. 

"—Honestly, I've only been borrowing his books." 

Peter. Scott doesn't want to talk about Peter. Ever. And especially not now. 

"—I never mentioned it because I didn't want you to worry. Because there's nothing to worry about, you know? Scott?" 

"My mom's missing." 

Silence on the other end of the line for the briefest of moments, then Stiles asks, voice low and focused, "What happened?" 

"She didn't come home after her shift and wouldn't answer her phone. I called the hospital, but they said she signed out. Then I came here, and…." 

"Here being the hospital?" 

"Yeah. The parking lot." Scott grinds his teeth together. "Deucalion took her. There's blood, Stiles." 

"…Do you think she's still alive?" Stiles asks, almost mechanically, and Scott's gut twists. 

He grabs the side of his face, breath quickening. "I—I don't—" 

"The blood, Scott. How much is there?" 

"Not a lot. She didn't bleed out here." 

"That's a good sign. Can you follow it anywhere? Can you smell her?" 

Scott feels like his lungs are cramping up, but he can smell her. He can, but it doesn't do any good. Her scent doesn't go anywhere. It just—disappears. "No, no, I can't. Stiles, I don't—I can't. I don't know what to—" 

"Breathe, Scott," Stiles says, panic tinging his voice. "We're going to find her," he says carefully. "I promise. Okay, Scott?" 

"Okay," Scott breathes. 

"That's good." Stiles says, relieved. "Is Isaac with you?" 

"Yeah." 

"Okay. Good. Okay. You said Deucalion lives in the penthouse of Allison's building. Is that actually true?" 

"I dunno. Seemed like it, but I –he could've been lying." 

"Call the Argents. See if they can find out. I'll see what my dad can do and talk to the Hales." 

Scott exhales. "Okay." He breathes in deeply. "And if no one knows anything?" 

"Then we'll find her anyway," Stiles says firmly. "You know we will." 

Scott's terrified and vulnerable, and he's so, so terriblyafraid, but it's Stiles. "Okay." 

 

o—o—o 

 

Stiles glares at the phone as he stops at a red light. "You were in Kali's head, and you're telling me you didn't know?" 

"I'm sorry, I was a little busy saving your sanity," Peter says from the other end. Stiles should probably do something about the sanity-saving-thing so Peter can't keep holding it over his head all the time. "And if you'll recall, I did warn you they were planning something else." 

Stiles runs a hand over his hair. "Fuck, I know. It was a longshot. I'm running out of options." 

"What options do you have left?" 

"Hope the Argents find something in the penthouse—" 

"Abandoned?" 

"Yeah. Otherwise, Dad's getting the sheriff department to test their new facial recognition program on Deucalion's face, but it's trial equipment, and Deucalion's eyes are flashing in all the pictures we used, so that's a longshot, too." 

"Have you tried Deaton?" 

"Scott's meeting with him now. I need you to try to find a locating spell for me."

"You think you're ready for something like that?" 

"I'm touched by your concern," Stiles says, squinting at the address numbers gleaming dimly at the edges of his headlight beams. "Probably not, but I'm getting Jennifer to try one for me, and I wanna make sure she won't pull one over on us." 

Peter hums. "I think I know of one. I'll text it to you when I find it." 

"Great," Stiles says as he pulls up to the warehouse. 

He's about to hang up and park the car when Peter purrs, "Stiles, who's with you?" 

"A unicorn and an eight foot tall hooker. Why?" 

"The alphas tried to kill Lydia and kidnapped Scott's mother, yet you think it's perfectly acceptable to drive around by yourself and meet with someone who's tried to kill you once before. I thought you were smarter than that." 

"I've got mountain ash and a stun gun," Stiles says in indignation. "And why the hell do you care? You've tried to kill me, too!" 

"I need to fuck self-worth into you, don't I," Peter murmurs, and Stiles nearly has a heart attack. "How often have you used that mountain ash?" 

Stiles sputters. 

"Stiles. How often?" 

"Once or twice?" Stiles chokes out. 

"It gets weaker the more you use it." Which, what!? How the fuck is this Stiles's life? Why does no one ever tell him these things? Why the fuck didn't  _Deaton_  tell him this? "Where are you?" 

Stiles sinks into his seat. "The warehouse." 

"The warehouse where Jennifer tried to sacrifice you?" Peter asks, long-suffering like he already knows the answer. 

"…Yes." 

Judgmental silence. 

"Yes, I know I'm an idiot! Now will you hurry up and find the spell?" 

"I have it out in front of me." 

Stiles groans in frustration and climbs out of the car. 

 

o—o—o 

 

"She wears it all the time," Stiles says, holding a necklace with a silver cross pendant, its silver plating wearing off around the edges to reveal matte bronze. "Scott said it was her grandmother's."

"It'll work," Jennifer says as she traces symbols and lines on the floor in chalk. He's compared her spell to the one Peter told him about, and while they're both different spells, they still share the same basis: use an item dear to whoever you've lost to find them. Jennifer seems pretty legit. Also, she said she didn't need Stiles to do anything except bring the necklace and she hasn't tried to sacrifice him yet. So far so good. 

Stiles watches as she works. He doesn't recognize any of the symbols she's using. He's read a lot about Celtic runes and symbols, but these look a little more like Egyptian hieroglyphs. "It's cuneiform," Jennifer explains after a moment. 

"That's… Sumerian?" 

She nods. "Magic can be used in any language, really," she says. "It mostly relies on intent and the power of the caster. But words have power, too. Do you know what a logogram is?" 

God, if only Stiles had a dollar for every time someone started a question with "Do you know…?" 

"It's a sign that stands for a whole word or part of one," she explains. "This one," she says, pointing to a symbol in the center of her web-like circle, "stands for guidance. This specific logogram has been used so often by spellcasters throughout the centuries that it's earned a certain power all of its own. It's why I'm not using English." 

"Cool." Useful, but unnecessary at the current moment. Stiles files it away for later. "So why here?" He gestures around at the warehouse. 

"Do you really need to ask?" 

Stiles resists the urge to shake her in frustration. "If I didn't need to ask I wouldn't be asking," he snaps. 

She nods in acknowledgement. "How did you find me before?" 

Stiles shifts his weight and crosses his arms. "Tracked your sacrifices. Found out you were making your little five-fold knot over telluric currents. Tracked you down to the center." 

"I chose this as the center because the telluric currents are strongest here," she says, finally glancing up to watch Stiles critically. 

"Did you really," Stiles says noncommittally. He can think of somewhere stronger. "Why are you lying?" 

A grim smile tugs at her lips, and she goes back to work on her symbols. "I should clarify. This is the strongest place I'm willing to use." 

Stiles glances down at the symbols on the ground, not really seeing them. "Why?" he croaks, looking back at Jennifer. 

She sighs a little. "So it really did get to you, didn't it." 

"But why? Why not you?" Stiles digs his fingers into his scalp. "You're the big bad witch in town. You're the one it should be using, not –not me!" 

Jennifer pauses in her work. "But this is your home, not mine." 

Stiles has a lot he wants to say that. He wants to say that Beacon Hills is more like his personal Hell than his home. He wants to say that in a year and a half he's going to fuck off to college and never come back. He wants to say that this is all completely insane and shouldn't make sense at all, but it does. It does make sense. Beacon Hills is his home. 

Jennifer glances at him in sympathy. "I told you, Stiles. You're a guardian. The Guardian. And the Nemeton knows it. " 

 

o—o—o

  

Jennifer's spell doesn't work. Or it does, but the results are bad. 

"She's alive," Stiles tells Scott over the phone as soon as Jennifer tells him what she's discovered. Scott starts to say something grateful, but Stiles cuts him off, heartache already settling heavy in his chest. "But she's not in Beacon Hills." Some Guardian he is. "She's somewhere up northwest, and Jennifer doesn't know where." 

"Does she have any idea—" Scott starts to ask, desperate. 

"Your mom could be anywhere from Washington state to Greenland. I'm sorry, Scott." 

Scott makes this high-pitched, breathy sort of sound, and Stiles kind of wants to shoot himself in the face. 

"…Go home, Scott. Do your homework, clean up the house so it's nice when she gets back, whatever –just don't do anything crazy. I have—there's one more thing I can try." 

"Magic?" Scott asks, voice impossibly small. 

Stiles nods then realizes Scott can't see him. "Yeah." 

"Can I come?" 

Stiles almost says no. Almost. "You can help, actually," he says slowly. Scott's blood will have a deeper connection to Melissa than Stiles's, after all. "But you're not gonna like it." 

"She's my mom, Stiles." 

"I know." He knows all too well.   

 

o—o—o 

 

"For the record," Isaac says as Scott slices his arm open. "I think this is a bad idea." 

"See, Isaac agrees with me," Peter says. Stiles ignores him, cringing and averting his eyes while Scott lets his blood drain into a bowl Peter brought from his apartment. 

"Since when do you care about Stiles's health?" Isaac asks. 

Stiles glances up from the Nemeton, heart skipping a beat as he waits to hear Peter's response. "Since I first met him, of course. Or has he not told you all about that one time I tried to kill him?" 

Stiles scowls, but when he sees Isaac's disturbed face, he can't help himself. He sighs in faux nostalgia. "Ah, yes, back in the good ol' days when there was only one crazy alpha to worry about. Oh, how I miss them." 

Isaac looks even more disturbed. Success. Peter's lips twitch in amusement. Not a success. Stiles gives him a dirty look for good measure. 

"Now what?" Scott asks, apparently finished filling the bowl. 

"Now," says Stiles, swallowing, "you get to cover me in blood. Yay." 

Isaac wrinkles his nose, Scott frowns, and Peter leers. They get to work. 

The hike to the Nemeton had been… interesting. Stiles and Peter had arrived separately (Jennifer, interestingly enough, wanted to stay as far away from the Nemeton as possible, so separating after the warehouse was blissfully easy), and Scott and Isaac had showed up together on Scott's motorbike. Explaining the magic tree and Peter's presence turned out to be more than a little awkward, and if Scott's mom wasn't missing, Stiles's dishonesty/omission of the facts totally would've been a bigger issue, but she is, so…. 

"I still think the magic tree is weird," Isaac says as Stiles puts the recently sterilized pocketknife to his own palm. Magic thrums through his veins, ready to be used. 

"But fingerpainting with blood is totally normal. Okay," Stiles says, shaking his head. He stares at his skin and bites his lip. His palm is so sensitive and –and bony. What if he cuts a tendon or something? 

"You can still change your mind, Stiles," Peter says, amused. 

Stiles scowls and slices a shallow little line into his palm, sharp and stinging like a large papercut. He closes his eyes as his blood wells. He folds his hand into a tight fist, digging his fingers into the cut. "Melissa McCall," he says, and slaps his palm over the silver cross pendant hanging from his neck. 

His magic rips through him and pulls him down into it, this time a far different, wilder sensation than the one he usually feels from levitating rocks and slamming alphas around. This sensation is deeper and more convoluted, too many ropes pulling him in too many directions, tearing him apart, and he doesn't know how to get himself out of this mess— 

 

o—o—o 

 

Stiles wakes up in Peter's car, muzzy and aching. "Wha…" He tries to wrap his mouth around the word, blinking as oncoming headlights flash painfully in his eyes before disappearing into the darkness. "Kidnapping again?" Stiles mumbles, shifting slowly in his seat. His shirt clings to his itchy chest, and apparently he's re-appropriated Scott's jacket. "Dick."

He glances over to see the tail end of Peter's eye roll. "I'm taking you back to your house." He glances over at Stiles. "I told you you weren't ready." 

Stiles yawns. "Congratulations, you were right. Where's Scott and Isaac?" 

Peter jerks his thumb over his shoulder. Stiles looks back and spots the Jeep and Scott's motorbike behind them. "That better be Scott in there," he grumbles. He hardly trusts Scott with the Jeep and Scott knows it, but God help him if it's Isaac who's driving. He doesn't think Isaac even has a driver's license. 

He checks his phone and sees a text from his dad saying he's working late. "Any news?" 

Peter shakes his head. "Did the spell work at all?" 

The spell was supposed to draw Stiles toward Melissa, but all he feels is tired and tense, like he's knotted up inside. "No," he sighs. 

Peter updates Stiles, and it all comes down to this: Deaton's got nothing. The Argents found the Alphas' supposed penthouse abandoned with no clue as to where they went, and neither Stiles nor Jennifer has a magical solution. Melissa's chances of survival look worse with each passing moment. 

Even if it wouldn't have stopped Deucalion from abducting Melissa, Stiles should have killed Kali when he had the chance, regardless of Scott's disapproval. 

"What do you think they're gonna do to her?" he murmurs. 

Peter looks at him askance. "You can answer that." 

Stiles's lips press together in a firm line. "Enlighten me." 

Peter shrugs. "Torture her, murder her, turn her, maybe –what was that phrase you used again—oh, 'Stockholm Syndrome' her. All of the above, perhaps…." He rolls his head over to look at Stiles, raising his eyebrows. 

The Jeep swerves a little behind them. Must be Scott. Stiles feels a pang of guilt for talking so callously, but he needs to figure this out. 

His phone goes off with a group text from his dad, asking if anyone knows what vehicles the alphas own and use, if any. Stiles tells him about the twins' motorcycles, and a minute later Chris Argent texts about a black Mercedes and a red Lamborghini. God, even their cars are evil. Another minute later, Chris texts saying that the Lamborghini's still in the apartment complex's garage. Stiles figures it's probably Ennis's. 

"If they were only planning to murder her, we would've found her body already," Stiles says eventually. 

"No one ever found Erica's body." 

Stiles winces and looks out his window. "They wouldn't take her so far away just to kill her. She's gotta be some sort of leverage. We still have time." 

"You have a point. And Deucalion's a patient man. I imagine he's enjoying making you stew." 

Stiles drums his fingers against the armrest of the door and watches the pale golden halos of front yard lamp posts flash by. "His mistake." Stiles will make sure of it. 

Peter smiles. 

 

o—o—o 

 

When Stiles's dad gets home right before Stiles is about to crawl into the shower, Stiles shoves his clothes back on and rushes downstairs to attack-hug him because, God, thank fuck his dad's alive and present. Unfortunately, he ends up getting a Serious Talk for his trouble. It turns out his father's not happy to see symbols drawn in blood on his son's face and gauze taped all over the back of his neck. Stiles can't imagine why. 

Presumably, what Stiles is  _supposed_ to get from this talk is that he should put more effort into maintaining his personal safety (which he totally plans to do because apparently the wolfsbane arrived in the mail today), but what he really gets from it is that the Sheriff's department found just enough evidence to put an APB out on Kali and her car and that they've started running license plates, which is awesome. Sort of. It could be better, but at least it's  _something_. 

It's a little frustrating that the greatest hope they've got of finding Melissa lies in the hands of the completely human, totally normal Sheriff's department. Then again, that's how the world's actually supposed to work, right? Rely on law enforcement to keep people safe? So maybe it's a little fitting. 

 

o—o—o 

 

Stiles sleeps for twelve hours, learns from his dad how to throw someone bigger and heavier over his shoulder, does homework, plants a pot of wolfsbane on the porch and does the same with a few seeds in the little, overgrown garden in the backyard. He stops at Danny's house to see if he knows anything about the twins, but his parents say he's out of town. The Sheriff's department interviews more of the Alphas' neighbors. Stiles and his dad suggest Scott and Isaac stay with them, but Scott decides to stay home in case Melissa shows up. Stiles goes to bed early, frustrated and exhausted. They don't find Melissa. 

On Monday, Stiles goes to school, runs five miles for cross country, does homework, talks Scott and Isaac through investigating the empty bank vault the alphas had kept Erica and Boyd in, then does his weird bonding-thing with the Nemeton again, much to Peter's displeasure. Scott keeps holding vigil. They don't find Melissa. 

On Tuesday, Stiles goes to school, runs five more miles, does homework, learns from his dad how to break someone's stranglehold, and receives his mountain ash baseball bat in the mail. He levitates pencils and books and his computer chair around the room, shocking his father in the process. He learns how to manipulate air currents so that it feels like a fan's blowing on his face. Isaac asks him how to help Scott with panic attacks. He bonds with the Nemeton again, and Peter complains that he looks like death warmed over. They still don’t find Melissa. 

On Wednesday, Finstock tells him to skip cross country practice because he looks like shit, Danny shows up on Stiles's doorstep smelling like lilacs, and Stiles gets a very bad idea. 

 

o—o—o

  

"You must be the most paranoid person I know," Stiles says, "and that's saying something." 

 _Shut up_ , Danny types.  _"Someone" strong enough to dent a fridge broke into Lydia's home and assaulted her the same day McCall's mom went missing. Meanwhile I've been hiding out at a friends and my parents said my ex, the alpha werewolf who disappeared and broke up with me over text, stopped by my house looking for me this morning. Of course I'm paranoid._

"Okay, fi—" Stiles starts to say, but Danny slaps a hand over his mouth. Stiles wrinkles his nose and gingerly removes Danny's hand. He pulls his laptop towards himself and types,  _That was disgusting. You smell like a nursing home._

Danny stares at him.  _That's the point. I'm not putting all this effort into hiding just so Ethan can track me down like a hound._

_How did you even find out about werewolves in the first place?_

Danny's face contorts in disbelief.  _I had sex with one and you thought I wouldn't find out?_

Stiles nods, cheeks burning as he thinks of claws in his hair. Danny shakes his head.  _My plane takes off at nine pm tonight. Do you know how I can get there without them knowing?_

Stiles thinks, pursing his lips and quirking them to the side. This is when he gets his very bad, no good, rotten, utterly  _perfect_ idea.

 _Yeah_ , he types after a moment.  _I think I can come up with something._  

If the road to Hell really is paved with good intentions, then Stiles is a drag racer slamming on the accelerator. 

 

o—o—o 

 

They're halfway through Stiles's planned route through the preserve when Danny starts showing serious doubts, such as: "Why are we going this way?" (To lose any tails, duh, Stiles says) and "Wait, are you sure the spells worked?" (Of course they did. Why wouldn't they? Magic is easy as pie once you've got it, Stiles says) and "Seriously, just take me to the airport, Stiles. We don't have a tail." 

As soon as Danny makes that last remark, Stiles knows they're doomed. Sure enough, a minute later red flashes in the corner of his eye. "Shit." He looks outside the open window and doesn't see anything. All that means is he won't see them coming. He slams on the brakes. 

Danny skips the "What's wrong?" and goes straight to the "What should I do?" 

Stiles throws the Jeep in park and grabs his baseball bat out of the back seat. "Stay in the car." 

Trailing mountain ash behind him, Stiles steps out of the Jeep and walks out onto the small, two-lane road in front of his car. It would be nice to have something solid at his back, but the problem with his Jeep is the foot of space underneath it that's ideal for being yanked under by terrifying monsters. He scans his surroundings, but the forest remains silent around him. 

Without looking away from the forest, he flicks his hand at the mountain ash, willing it into a tight circle around the Jeep. 

"Seriously?" Ethan asks from right behind him. Stiles jams his elbow back into Ethan's ribs and earns himself a soft "oof!" He whips around, twisting his hand for the levitation spell, and sends Ethan's body flying into a tree. His fingers tingle, magic flowing strong under his skin. 

"Holy—" Danny says, hushed, through the half-open window of the Jeep. 

Ethan pushes himself off the ground cautiously, showing his empty hands. "I just want to talk," he says. 

"Uh huh," Stiles says, not believing him in the least. He glances at Danny. He needs to figure out how to get him out of here. But… "Where's the rest of your pack?" he asks Ethan, coaxing some of the mountain ash into a separate circle around himself. "You the distraction?" 

"I came on my own," Ethan says tightly. He looks at Danny, pleading. "I came to help. I don't know what Stiles has told you, but I just want you to be safe." 

"No, you don't," Danny says, jaw clenching. "How stupid do you think I am?" He looks at Stiles, betrayed. "How stupid do all of you think I am?" Stiles ducks his head, mouth twisting, but Danny's already looking back at Ethan. "Let me leave." 

Ethan's forehead wrinkles, and he opens his mouth to make some sort of stupid, heartfelt plea. 

Stiles cuts him off by twisting his hand and slamming him back up against the tree. "I asked: Where's the rest of your pack?" 

"They're not—" he starts, but Stiles presses him harder against the tree, cutting off his air. 

"Where are they?" 

"I can't tell—" Ethan croaks. 

"Where's Melissa!?" Stiles shouts. 

Ethan closes his eyes and grits his teeth, his claws digging into the bark behind him. Stiles's fingers clench around the bat. 

"Stiles?" Danny asks cautiously. 

Stiles tears his eyes away from Ethan to look at Danny. He's staring at Stiles, brow furrowed and dark brown eyes wide, lips parted slightly. Stiles exhales harshly and forces himself to say calmly, "There's a circle of mountain ash around the Jeep. Stay inside, and they can't touch you." 

Danny swallows. "What are you gonna do?" 

Stiles twirls the bat over itself and jams the end into the dirt. "Whatever I need to." 

"Danny," Ethan croaks. 

Danny opens his mouth to speak but closes it when Stiles stares him down, eyes narrowing. Lost, Danny shakes his head at Ethan and rolls up the window. He stares down at his phone. 

"So," Stiles says, looking back at Ethan. He walks up to him. "We've got a few options. I can tear your limbs off with magic –cool but also kinda gross—, tase you –easy but boring—, or I can use the bat –good for taking my time but also a lot of effort. Or, you know, you could just tell me where Melissa is..." Stiles trails off hopefully. 

Ethan rolls his eyes. 

"All of the above it is." Stiles swings the bat into Ethan's ribs, making him flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. He looks back at Stiles, the muscle in his jaw jumping. "Yeaaah," Stiles says with a small grin and hefts the bat. "Mountain ash. Pretty cool, am I right?" He swings it again, hitting right above the same spot as before. "Where's Melissa?" 

Ethan looks straight ahead, mouth clamped shut. 

Stiles presses the butt of the bat into Ethan's stomach. "Dude," he says, watching in fascination as Ethan's skin slowly caves in around the bat until it shouldn't be possible for it to stretch any further. Stiles pulls the bat away a little, and the hollow in Ethan's skin remains the same, repelled by the wood. "It's like fucking magnets." He presses down again, watching as Ethan's skin caves in impossibly further. Blood vessels break. Stiles grimaces and looks back up at Ethan's face. "That's disgusting. Where's Melissa?" 

Ethan stares back at him silently.

Stiles sighs and presses down harder, and Ethan whimpers as his skin splits in the center of the hollow, blood spilling out. Stiles wrinkles his nose and looks back up. "You know, this traumatizes me as much as you." Stiles jerks the bat away and swings, hitting the side of Ethan's knee with a crack. "Where's Melissa?" he asks one more time. 

Ethan snarls, and Stiles swings and swings, taking breaks to trace the bat down Ethan's body and press down experimentally. His magic sings in the background, a steady pulse holding Ethan aloft, but Stiles's body itself begins to tire, cold and shaking from the effort and the Nemeton's lingering aftereffects. He pulls the bat away, breathing hard as he stares at Ethan's fading bruises and broken bones that refuse to heal unless Stiles decides to reset them. 

"You're going to regret this," Ethan warns him. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Oh, I'm terrified. Look, seriously, I'm shaking." He holds out a genuinely quivering hand. He should probably be concerned about that. "Oh, wait, that's hunger. I could really go for a burger right about now." He drops the bloody bat and pulls out his stun gun, tapping his index finger against it as he eyes Ethan's body up and down, quirking his lips to the side. "Maybe just a salad. Blood makes me squeamish, you know?" 

"That's not what I meant," Ethan says, sounding defeated. Stiles raises his eyebrows and dips his head for Ethan to continue. "I meant, if you keep doing this you'll never be the same. You'll never be able to sleep without nightmares. You'll never stop checking your every move." He sucks in a shuddering breath, looking away. 

Stiles makes a sad face and mimes playing a tiny violin. 

"You'll never stop feeling guilty," Ethan tells him, frustrated and pleading. 

A smirk twists Stiles's lips. "Yeah, no. See, you and I, totally different situations. You feel guilty for murdering the innocent, right? Meanwhile—" 

"My pack wasn't—" 

Stiles presses down with his magic, making Ethan choke. "Boyd and Erica. Erica and Boyd. Remember them at all?" 

"'m'sorry—" 

Stiles jams the stun gun into Ethan's shattered knee, the clicking sound of it setting his teeth on edge. "Apologize by telling me where you're keeping Melissa McCall." 

Ethan squeezes his eyes shut, and Stiles tases him so much he's afraid it'll run out of charge. He slides Ethan down so they're at eyelevel. "So you know how Deucalion's blind because Gerard Argent and his hunters shot electrified arrows through his eyes?" Stiles taps the stun gun against Ethan's cheek. "I bet a stun gun can get the job done, too." 

He lifts the stun gun away from Ethan's face, angling it towards his right eye and pushing it slowly towards it, turning it on and off in the vague hope Ethan will crack from the anticipation. He doesn't. Stiles pauses a centimeter away from Ethan's eye. "Are you fucking kidding me? You're seriously gonna let me go through with this?" 

Ethan glares. "If you're so squeamish maybe you should let someone else do the dirty work from now on." 

Stiles looks up, an unhappy, lost smile on the edge of his lips. "Or maybe I just won't look." He averts his eyes and presses the stun gun down. He clicks it on and hears a sizzle and a keening whimper. He's going to Hell, and it's the best thing he can do. 

"Stiles!" Danny shouts, panicked, right as Stiles smells burning flesh.   

He whips around, heart pounding, to see Danny getting out of the car. 

"You're going too f—watch out!" Danny shouts, and Stiles dodges to the side, earning himself a grazing slash of claws against his rib cage. He falls to the ground and tries to summon up his magic, his control of it lost in his distraction, but before he can twist his hand and slam Ethan around again, Ethan's foot collides with the back of his head, knocking him down, his world fading around him as the side of his head bounces off the ground painlessly. The last thing he registers is Danny shouting "Wait!" 

Skip bite-rape scene.

He comes to, more or less, to Danny's distant voice crying out. It rouses him, his vision grudgingly coming into focus and his head aching. He has no idea how much time has passed, but he needs to get up. Melissa and Danny need him. 

"No, no, no, no, no," Ethan's pleading somewhere just within Stiles's hearing, and it makes Stiles wonder if Aiden's in trouble, because what other reason would Ethan have to panic? 

Danny groans for someone to get away from him, and Stiles realizes he has to get up  _now._ He does, staggering, and when the sight before him registers, he nearly vomits.  

Danny groans, eyes darting between Ethan and Stiles, and he strains weakly to get away from him. "Let me go." 

Stiles stares at Ethan, somehow surprised that he'd sink so low, but, honestly—"Why am I not more surprised." 

He starts prying Ethan's hands away from Danny with magic, ignoring the werewolf's protests until he says, desperate, "I can take his pain away!" 

"I don't want you to!" Danny gasps, rolling onto his side as he tries to get away. Stiles winces in sympathy and slams Ethan down against the ground several feet away. 

"He won't," Stiles promises, gingerly touching Danny's shoulder. Stiles blinks, brows furrowing. He can feel Danny's life force under his fingers, sluggish and fading. 

"I don't wanna die," Danny whispers. 

Stiles looks between him and Ethan, another bad idea blooming in his mind's eye.

He drags Ethan back beside him and Danny. 

"I'm sorry," Ethan says solemnly, resigned like he's saying goodbye. 

"Good," Stiles says, grabbing Ethan's arm with one hand and Danny's bloody arm with the other. Ethan's life runs under his fingers like a river of electricity, strong and reactive, sparking against the pull of Stiles's magic. 

"No, wait—" Ethan starts to say, pulling away, but Stiles snarls wordlessly and holds him in place. 

"Stiles—" Danny says, voice tinged with fear. 

"I won't let you die," Stiles says. He pulls at Ethan's life force, calming the tremors in his own exhausted body, only to shiver again as he  _pushes_ it into Danny. His body trembles from the push and pull of energy surging through him. He's a living conduit, and it feels so good that he wants to keep it all to himself, but Danny's beside him, dying, the self-made poison in his veins threatening to steal him out from under Stiles's fingertips, and it's all Stile's fault. 

As Stiles funnels Ethan's life force into Danny, Ethan's life force stutters and pulses under his fingertips, and Stiles strengthens his pull until Ethan's body goes slack against the magic holding him hostage, and color tinges Danny's cheeks again, his skin warming under Stiles's. It's easier than Stiles thought it'd be to watch Ethan die. To  _make_  him die. Stiles should probably be panicking right now, but all he can feel is the drive to make Danny live. "Wait," Ethan gasps, breathless. "I'll—" He coughs weakly. "I'll tell you where she is." 

Stiles almost falters, but Danny's still fighting death's siren call. "Tell me," Stiles says. 

"St—stop," Ethan says. 

Stiles narrows his eyes and pulls harder on the wavering, thin line of life left in Ethan. "Tell me first." 

Ethan stares at him, eyes wide and frightened. "They're keeping her in a safe house. In Quebec." 

Quebec. What the hell. "Do you know the address?" 

"No—" 

"Ethan." 

"I swear I don't know! I turned back before we got there." 

Stiles presses his lips into a thin line. "That's too bad," he says. And then he kills him. 

 

o—o—o 

 

Stiles waits, hands shaking, to see if Danny will pull through. He does. 

"I'm not staying here," Danny says, walking over to Stiles's Jeep. 

"I know," Stiles says, trailing behind him, running a shaky hand through his hair. "We can—we can take you to Scott." 

Danny keeps walking, refusing to look back at Stiles. Ethan's body cools behind them, splayed out in a ditch out of sight of the road. Stiles is going to have to do something about it. "No," Danny says, opening up the trunk of the Jeep. "I'm not staying in Beacon Hills." 

"You have to learn control first, Danny," Stiles says. 

Danny finds Stiles's first aid kit and pulls out anesthetic and gauze. How he knew it was there, Stiles doesn't know. Maybe Stiles is just that predictable. 

"Jackson will teach me." 

"Jackson. The guy with such great self-control he turned into a crazed lizardman and killed half the town. That Jackson?" 

Back stiff, Danny begins cleaning the blood off his arm. "At least he didn't use me as bait." 

Stiles wrings his hands together. "You've—you've probably missed your flight by now," he tries weakly. 

Unforgiving, Danny looks up at him. "I'll get a new one."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bite rape -- Thinking that turning Danny into a werewolf will prevent Deucalion from killing him, Ethan bites Danny against his will. 
> 
> Using people in general -- Stiles uses Danny as bait to catch Ethan.
> 
> So basically this is the "road to hell paved with good intentions" chapter, and I am so terribly sorry, Danny, Jesus Christ.


	13. Boden's Mate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boden's Mate: a checkmating pattern in chess characterized by bishops on two criss-crossing diagonals, with possible flight squares for the king being occupied by friendly pieces
> 
> Stiles is a little shit. Also, he might be dying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for dubcon, although probably not the dubcon you're expecting. *Specifics in endnotes.
> 
> Many thanks to [edragoon](http://edragoon.tumblr.com/) for feedback.

He only registers a few things as he drives back from the airport: the cold sweat dripping into his eyes, the light rain beating down on his Jeep, the blurry headlights between his windshield wipers.

His eyes flick to the clock. 8:49 pm. His dad's shift ends at 10. He doesn't have enough time. 

He calls Peter. 

It takes three long rings, and then, "Stiles?" 

Stiles opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. 

Peter's voice lowers, suspicious. "Stiles," he says, and it's more a demand than a question. 

Stiles swallows and sucks in a shuddering breath. "I need to get rid of a body." 

"Oh," Peter says, any concern replaced with casual dismissal. It makes Stiles blink in consternation, a little life returning to his limbs. "Good for you." 

"What!? Are you kidding? God, you're so—" Stiles says tightly, wringing Peter's phantom neck with one hand. "Shit," he sighs. Why is he even surprised? He runs his hand through his hair. 

"Your panic is adorable but, ultimately, a waste of my time. Get over it and tell me why you called." 

His panic is "adorable." Stiles's  _panic_ is  _adorable._ Adorable panic! "I hate you so much," he mutters. "My dad's shift ends at ten, and I'm in the preserve on South Wilshire. I don't have time to hide it. I was hoping—" fuck, how is this his life now? "—I was hoping you could do it for me." His heart sinks even as he says it. 

"Mmm, no." 

"Come on, dude. Empire, remember?" 

"I regret ever sharing that with you." 

"Weird. I didn't know you were capable of regret." 

"Insulting me doesn't make me want to help you, Stiles." 

"But mentioning all my super useful magic does, right?" Stiles grins widely. "Right." 

"No. Honestly, it's not a big deal if you murdered someone. I'm assuming it was one of the alphas?" 

'Not a big deal,' Jesus Christ. "…Ethan." 

"See, you're fine. Scott's the only one who will care. Everyone else will be happy there's one less alpha trying to kill them. Also probably mildly concerned for your mental wellbeing, but I'd say that's a small price to pay, wouldn't you?" 

Stiles stares down at the steering wheel. "…I didn't  _just_ murder him." 

"Oh, really?" Peter's smiling, Stiles knows it. Stiles is wallowing in guilt and shame and irritation, and Peter's getting off on it. Asshole. 

Stiles tells him what happened in the briefest of terms. "So will you do it?" 

"You'll owe me. Again." 

"I—" Stiles's stomach drops. "Okay. But I get to choose. I get to choose how I pay you back, I mean." There's only one free spot on Stiles's bingo board, and Peter's already landed it. 

Peter's tone lowers. "Is that what you really want? One more decision resting on your shoulders?" 

"I—that's not—" Fuck. 

Stiles pulls over by the too familiar ditch and parks the car. He blasts the hot air even hotter and wraps his arms around himself. He glances outside at the ditch, but the body's out of sight. 

"You've done so well, despite everything that's been thrown at you," Peter says, voice soft and warm down Stiles's spine. "If you let me have this, I'll take my time with you, steal away all the tension and make you whine and shake. I'd pull so many sounds out of you. Would you like that, Stiles?" 

Stiles mouth drops open, breath stuttering. 

"Yes or no?" 

The answer slips out of Stiles, unbidden. "Yeah." He swallows and licks his lips. "Yeah, I would, but—" There's a reason he doesn't want to owe Peter another blank favor. There definitely is. He just has to remember it. 

"Or maybe, if you let me have this, I'll shove you up against the wall the moment you let your guard down and fuck you until you don't have the breath to speak, until all you can do is hang on and take it. I bet you'd  _love_ that. Wouldn't you, Stiles?" 

"Fuck," Stiles breathes. "Yeah." Stiles presses down on his dick and sinks into his seat, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. There's no one in sight. Yet. 

"So remind me again, do you really want to decide yourself how to repay me? Or would you rather find out exactly how I plan to take you apart?" 

"I—" It takes considerable effort for Stiles to focus on the world around him. He blinks rapidly, hoping to bring everything into some semblance of order. He's palming his dick while parked on the side of the road, and there's a body in a ditch right next to him. "No," he says firmly. "This is not—we are not—I'll do you a favor for this, and I'll choose what it is. It'll be worth it. Are you coming or not?" 

"…I'm on my way," Peter says thinly, like the almost-phone-sex never happened. Stiles is perfectly fine with that. 

 

o—o—o 

 

Umbrella over his head, Peter takes one look at Stiles and says, "Good God, you look terrible." 

Stiles scowls and points at the ditch. "Just get rid of it." 

Peter hums, eyes darting between Stiles and the ditch. "I was thinking of doing something else, actually. For your own benefit, of course." 

Stiles narrows his eyes. "What?" 

Peter smiles thinly. "You won't sacrifice Bambi, fine, but you can't keep sacrificing yourself. Honestly, you look like a dead man walking." 

"You would know," Stiles mutters. 

Without skipping a beat, Peter continues, "So we're going to use Ethan's body as bait, and then you'll sacrifice Aiden." 

Stiles grinds his teeth together. "I… considered that, but even if Aiden felt Ethan dying and turned around, he's still probably on the opposite end of the continent. It'll take him days to get here, and I can't sit around the Nemeton hoping he'll show up." 

"Then don't do that. Set up a trap, and pick him up when you're ready" Peter nods slightly. "Or, rather, I'll set up the trap tonight, and you can finish it tomorrow." He smirks. "You can even repay me then, if you're so willing." 

Stiles presses his lips together in a thin line. "What if Kali or Deucalion comes back with him?" 

"You can handle them, and I'll be with you just in case. But honestly, they most likely won't. They haven't made any demands, so it seems the purpose of the distance they've put between us is to isolate Melissa and control her without Scott or anyone else's interference. It'll take at least two of them to do so properly, and Deucalion is nothing if not proper." Peter rolls his eyes. 

"I guess," Stiles says doubtfully. 

Peter watches him for a moment, then says, "Get some sleep tonight," Peter says. "You'll need it. And burn your clothes. There's too much blood on them." 

Stiles grimaces and takes off, watching Peter's figure fade away in his rear view mirror. His mouth twitches in a ghost of a smile. Joke's on Peter. He totally thinks he's getting sexy times tomorrow, but Stiles never promised that. He'll update the wards in Peter's apartment or something and laugh in Peter's face when he demands more. That'll teach him. 

He glances at his clock. 9:41 pm. He takes a deep breath and calls his dad. He thinks Melissa's in Quebec, he says. He overheard some freshman complaining about the twins questioning her about it, he explains. Yeah, he only connected the dots now. Sorry, he doesn't remember who the girl was. 

He cleans the blood and mud off his sneakers when he gets home. Then he curls up on the floor of the tub and bows his head under the spray of the shower. 

 _"And if I ever need to defend myself or protect someone else by using it, and I end up killing with it, will that make me a bad person?"_ his dad had asked about his gun.  _No_ , Stiles had said back, but that's not what happened today. He wasn't defending himself. He wasn't even protecting Melissa, not really. He used Danny without telling him and nearly got him killed. 

And the worst of it, the absolute worst, is that what Stiles regrets most is not having done it sooner. He regrets not killing Aiden when he had the chance. Regrets not killing Kali when he had her right there in front of him. Maybe if he had turned himself into a killer sooner, Melissa wouldn't be missing. 

The water keeps washing over him, but he doesn't think he'll ever again feel clean.

  

o—o—o 

 

They find Deucalion's car the next day, abandoned in a small town near the Oregon border, and Stiles's dad has to hand the case over to the FBI. They call Stiles out of class to ask him why he thinks the twins have anything to do with Melissa's disappearance. Stiles absolutely does not think about being a murderer. He compartmentalizes. 

"I just—" he shrugs, looking away. "It's only a hunch, you know, but I thought—" He shrugs again. "At least it's something." 

"Can you explain how you came by this hunch?" 

Stiles opens and closes his mouth, and he can see the suspicion on the two agents' faces. At least Scott's dad isn't on the case. "There are these two twins –freshmen—this year, who've really had it out for Scott. And I mean,  _really_ , had it out for him. I don't even know why. He's the nicest guy in the world. Seriously, he saves worms off the sidewalk after it rains—" One of the agents makes a face. "But anyway, yeah, they've had it out for him, and they've been getting –scarier—over the last few weeks—" 

"Scarier?" 

"Like, making threats scarier. But we never thought they'd go after Scott's  _mom_. I mean, you think Scott's nice? His mom's a nurse who saves lives. She—" 

"Why do you think they went after Scott's mom?" 

"Right, well, they'd been making threats—" 

"What sort of threats?" 

Stiles blinks. "Uh, physical ones. Like—" He makes a show of bulking up and looking scary. 

The agents do not seem impressed. "Did they ever say anything?" 

"Uh, just simple things, I think? You know, 'you better watch your back', that sort of thing. I dunno, they were mostly aimed at Scott, not me." Ugh. He needs to keep this short. "Anyway, Scott and them get in a fight one day, the next day they disappear from school, and then that weekend Melissa disappears. Seems a little weird." 

The agents seem skeptical. Stiles doesn't blame them. "And Quebec?" 

"Right, sorry, I overheard someone talking in the hallways last month about how one of the twins –Ethan or Aiden, I dunno—wouldn't stop asking her questions about it." 

"Do you remember who this was?" 

Stiles shakes his head, and the other agent sighs. "That's a really big leap of logic." 

Stiles winces and shrugs helplessly. "It's the best I've got. I just—my mom's… gone, and Melissa's always been—she's always been there for me. I guess I'm just… a little desperate. You'll find her, right?" 

"We're doing everything we can," one of them says, sympathy on her face, and they let Stiles go. 

Yeah. He used the Dead Mom card to get the FBI off his back. He's no longer on the highway to Hell. He's parked in the parking lot. 

 

o—o—o 

 

No one tells Jennifer about Quebec, but she finds out anyway. Stiles isn't surprised. News travels fast in high school, and teachers aren't nearly as deaf as the students think. 

"I have some old contacts up there," she says. 

"Druids?" Scott asks. 

She nods. "I'll see what they can tell me." She looks at Stiles. "Do you want a pass to go home? You look… tired." 

Stiles scowls. "I'm fine. Let us know if you find anything out. We gotta get to class." He drags Scott into the hallway, closing the door behind them. 

Scott looks –really looks—at Stiles. "Are you okay, Stiles?" 

"Ugh, Jennifer just freaks me out. Don't worry about it." 

 

o—o—o 

 

Scott assures Stiles their stories match during lunch. Allison, Lydia, and Isaac sit beside them, occasionally chiming in. "How are you holding up?" Stiles asks Scott afterward. 

Scott shrugs and shakes his head. "I'm tired. Scared. What if she's—?" He swallows and looks away. 

"I don't think Deucalion wants her dead," Stiles says softly. 

"Then what does he want with her!? If he's only holding her hostage, then why's she so far away? Why—" 

"She's gotta be more than leverage, Scott," Stiles says reluctantly. He debates not saying anything at all, but Scott should be prepared, just in case. Stiles heaves out a sigh. "Remember when Peter used her to get to you?" 

The expression falls off Scott's face. "You think Deucalion turned her?" he asks lowly. 

"It's… a possibility," Stiles says slowly. He doesn't think Ethan's decision to bite Danny was an original one. 

Scott pushes away from the table, hands curled into fists, and walks away. Isaac moves to follow him, but Stiles gestures for him to sit back down. "It's okay, I'll go." 

He follows Scott into the boy's bathroom and watches him struggle to hold his wolf at bay. Tears slip down Scott's face, and all Stiles can do is rub his back and promise, "We'll take care of this." 

Stiles will take care of it. 

 

o—o—o 

 

The world spins away from him whenever he stands up too quickly, and every blink tugs at his eyelids. Exhaustion nestles deep in his bones, making every movement a chore. Stiles slugs on anyway. 

He tells his dad he's staying after for a group project, which isn't totally a lie, really, because getting rid of the alphas totally counts as a group project in all the technical definitions. 

Step one of setting up the trap involves Stiles creating fresh mountain ash dust, a project he takes on by himself in the middle of the woods far, far away from society so that no one will have to witness him jerking off on a pile of wood then setting it all on fire. 

Magic is weird and fun but kind of gross. Kind of like Stiles's life. 

Step two involves Stiles passing out in his car out of exhaustion and waking up to a forest ranger knocking on his window. Step three involves him convincing the ranger that no, he's not dying, he's just an overworked high schooler exhausted from studying for the ACT (which should be true but unfortunately is not) and yes, he's totally capable of driving himself back home. 

Step four involves following Peter to the spot in the ravine near the Nemeton where he's buried Ethan's body under a spiraling rope of wolfsbane. 

Stiles eyes the spiral and shakes his head. "You and Derek." 

Peter shrugs a little. 

Stiles ends up making a nearly complete circle of mountain ash around the site, rigging a small stick of it to fall and lock into place when Aiden undoes the last of the rope, completing the circle of mountain ash and trapping Aiden within. He packs down the line of ash under dirt and leaves, and by the time he's done he's sweating and trembling, his back and hands aching. 

He brushes his hands off on his pants. "Maybe I shouldn't kill Aiden," he says. He takes a swig from his water bottle and smacks his lips. "If I do, it'll only piss Kali and Deucalion off. They'll probably hurt Melissa then come back and hurt us, too. But if I don't, they'll come back and try to use Melissa as a bargaining chip, so we'll have more time to pick them off." 

"More time for the Nemeton to kill you slowly, you mean," Peter clarifies, intonation carefully devoid of emotion. 

Stiles crosses his arms and rolls his eyes. "I'm not dying—" 

Peter darts forward and grabs Stiles by the throat, yanking him close. "You need to take better care of yourself, Stiles, or I'll do it for you." Stiles narrows his eyes and begins twisting his hand to toss Peter away, but Peter catches his wrist and squeezes. "I don't think so," he says sharply. 

Stiles seethes, trying to wrench his hand away. "I don't need to be taken care of, Peter! I'm not  _dying_. I'm just tired because I'm the only one who's actually getting shit done. That's what you wanted, isn't it? You wanted me to be powerful. Well, now I am. I am, and I'm working with you. I'm exactly where you want doing exactly what you want me to do, so why  _the fuck_ do you want me to stop?" 

Peter loosens his grip ever so slightly, and Stiles struggles to pull away again. "God, just—let go!" 

Peter loosens his grip enough for Stiles to rotate his wrist around and twist even more in the vague hope he'll be able to slip away, but his strength fizzles away as a wave of dizziness and exhaustion hits him. "What—" he says heavily, swaying and steadied only by Peter's hands. 

"You know exactly what, Stiles. You're letting the Nemeton use you, and it's killing you. You need to stop." 

Stiles looks away. "But I need to be strong. I can't take them all on like this. I can't slam all three of them up against a wall and crush them to death. I'll run out too quickly. And if I sacrifice Aiden instead –they've got Melissa. The things Deucalion could do to her, to Scott in retaliation—I can't—" 

Peter's claws dig into his wrist. "You're more important." 

"No, I'm not." Stiles tries to turn his face away, but Peter won't let him. 

"You are to me," Peter growls more than says, staring hard at Stiles. 

A grim smile tugs at the corner of Stiles's lips. "No. My magic is." 

Peter snakes a hand into Stiles's hair and curls the other over the jut of Stiles's hip, dragging him closer. "If it was only magic I was after, I'd be going after Deaton or Jennifer." 

That startles a breath of amusement out of Stiles, his head dipping under Peter's palm, and Peter's lips twitch. "I didn't ask permission to bite Lydia or Scott, Stiles," Peter murmurs. "It was only you, and it will always be you, magic or not. I'm not letting go." 

Stiles swallows, looking up. "…I never agreed to this." His voice comes out quiet and rough, revealing far more than he'd like. 

Peter's thumb strokes up the line of his neck, and Stiles barely stops himself from leaning into it, his muscles going lax despite himself. Peter's smile is all teeth. "But you said it yourself. I have you exactly where I want, doing exactly what I want you to do. And you know what, Stiles? You're the one who chose to be here. I'm only going to make sure you stay." 

It's hard to think right now, Peter's voice and touch hushing the thoughts whirling around Stiles's mind, but... "If Aiden doesn't show up," Stiles says quietly, "then I will keep sacrificing myself to the Nemeton. It always stops before it takes too much. It doesn't want me dead, either." So maybe he fainted out of exhaustion a little bit ago. Exhaustion isn't going to kill him. Honestly, when this is all over he'll sleep for a week, and then he'll be fine. Peter's only paranoid because his whole family died and Stiles is his new, fragile little toy. 

Peter tightens his grip on Stiles's wrist and hair. "How was cross country today?" 

Stiles blinks at the non sequitur. "Fine, I guess." Peter gives him a look, and Stiles bites his lower lip in unease. "I didn't go," he mumbles in a rush. 

" _Why_?" 

Stiles steps back and leans away. "Finstock told me not to. He's kinda weird like that, you know? Personally I think there's a screw loose somewhere up here—" Stiles points at his head and waves his finger in the crazy circle. Peter, unamused, grabs his wrist and pulls it down. "Dude, what is it with you and my wrists? I mean, seriously, it's weird." 

Peter looks up at the sky like it'll tell him why he has to deal with a babbling teenager with a penchant for deflection. If the sky could answer, it would probably tell him it's his own damn fault. Peter sighs. "If your coach is telling you not to go to practice because of your health –and I've met Finstock, he's not the type to do so lightly—then don't you think that means something?" 

"…No." 

"Now you're just being obstinate." 

"Have you met me?" 

Peter's lips twitch. "Hm." He eyes Stiles's wrist, tracing two fingers over the pulse. He meets Stiles's eyes. "Tell me the truth. Is it killing you?" 

Stiles stands up straight, the hand on his neck moving with him, and narrows his eyes. "Well, I don't hear Lydia screaming, so—" 

"Yes or no." 

Stiles could offer a number of responses. He could lie –try and fail to force the confidence into it, he could deflect –ask Peter why he cares and get a disappointed sigh for his trouble, he could tell the truth and ignore Peter's inevitable disapproval. But when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. 

"What would your father do if you died?" 

A pang strikes Stiles in the heart. "Peter, come on, just..." He shakes his head and looks away. 

"How long do you think Scott would survive without you at his side? Do you really think it's in everyone's best interests for you to give your life up to take out the alphas? You know they won't be the last threats we have to face." 

Stiles looks back at him, raising his eyebrows. "'We'?" 

"Beacon Hills is mine, too." 

Stiles huffs. "You're like a terrifying toddler. All 'mine, mine, mine' and tantrums when you don't get what you want. There's more to life than ownership, you know." 

Peter grins, sliding his hand down to the small of Stiles's back and tugging him close, holding Stiles's wrist between them. He noses at Stiles's neck and says, breath tickling Stiles's skin, "Oh, I know." He sucks at Stiles's skin and presses down with his teeth. 

Stiles breathes out through his teeth, a little  _pf_ of sound, lazily arching his neck despite himself. "I'm not talking about sex," he says in resignation. 

"That's too bad." Peter nips at his ear lobe and pulls away. "If Aiden doesn't show up –and he will—you'll sacrifice Bambi before you resort to yourself. You'll do it to protect your father and Scott. Do you understand?" 

Stiles blinks slowly and heaves a sigh. "Yeah, I understand." 

Peter smiles and pulls him in for a bruising kiss, thorough and controlling, a claim. Stiles supposes a claim is exactly what it is, and as much as it makes him want to sink into it, it also grates on his senses. He's not a toy. He's not Peter's. Maybe Peter has a point about all of this, but that doesn't mean Stiles is going to let himself be pushed around and told what to do like a ragdoll. He twists his wrist out of Peter's grasp with a move his father taught him and ducks away, casting the levitation spell and willing Peter to fly backwards. 

Peter crashes back against a tree with a snarl, and Stiles leaves him there, pinned, while he shakes the ensuing dizziness out of his head. He takes a deep breath and meets Peter's eyes. "But Peter? Next time I say 'let go', you let go. Do you understand?" 

Peter narrows his eyes. "How's this: Put me down now, and I won't rip out your larynx." 

"Mmm," Stiles ponders aloud. He wanders over to his backpack and takes several long gulps of water, baring his throat to Peter. He drops the bottle and licks his lips, watching Peter's eyes zero in on his tongue. He smirks. "Nope. Not convinced." 

He wanders up to Peter and tilts his head to the side. "You know, I'm getting really sick and tired of you having the upper hand." 

Peter grins sharply. "You get off on it." 

Stiles squints at him, tapping his index finger against his thigh. His body's jittery, like he's had too much coffee and not enough food, but he's got something to focus on now, something to keep him grounded. He shrugs and plays with the hem of Peter's shirt, watching as a tiny shiver runs through Peter's abs. He looks up at Peter through his lashes. "I bet I'll get off on this more," he murmurs. 

He unbuckles Peter's belt and takes his time sliding it away from his jeans. He lets it fall to the ground with a soft clink and fingers the button of Peter's jeans. "Stiles," Peter growls in warning. 

Stiles goes still and looks up at him. "Are you feeling uncomfortable?" he asks innocently. "I don't wanna hurt you, and consent is very important to me." He lowers his voice and says seriously, "Say the word and I'll stop." 

Peter glowers. "You haven't even started yet." 

"No." Stiles grins and undoes the top button. "I guess I haven't," he murmurs, sliding the zipper open and palming the line of Peter's half-hard cock. He pulls it out and gives it a light squeeze, grazing his index finger down the underside. Stiles's grin grows as Peter's abs jump. 

Peter sneers down at him. "I think I'm falling asleep." 

"Oh? That's a shame," Stiles says, pulling away. He rucks up Peter's shirt with one hand and stares. Man, evil looks good. "Feel free, though. To sleep, I mean." He digs his thumb into the line of Peter's abdomen. "I'm basking." He looks up to see Peter's  _I'm-going-to-murder-you-in-your-sleep_ glare. "Do you work out, or is this a werewolf thing?" 

Peter snarls, eyes flashing and fingers twitching at his side. Stiles funnels a little more magic into the spell, pressing Peter's hands against the tree. Peter groans. "I need to breathe, Stiles," he says, voice strained. 

A pang of worry makes Stiles lighten up, and Peter's entire body sags forward a little. "Sorry," Stiles mumbles, hands shaking from Peter's sudden weight. He lets go and lowers them, and Peter's shirt falls back down. 

Peter's clawed hand jerks towards his throat, and Stiles slams it back down right in time to avoid getting his air supply cut off. He frowns at Peter's unamused glare and says, "In all fairness, I should have expected that." 

Peter rolls his eyes, and Stiles goes back to examining his torso. He lays his palm on Peter's rib cage and slides it downward, cataloging the lines of Peter's muscles. He's not sure if he's more jealous that he doesn't have Peter's physique or excited that  _he's_ the one who gets to touch it. Peter's warm skin rises and falls with his breath under Stiles's touch. His abs flex, and Stiles looks back at his face. His jaw's set, his gaze cold. Stiles recognizes that look. It's defensive, angry. It makes him wonder when the last time was that someone really touched Peter without sexual intent behind it, when he last allowed it of someone. "I was serious, before," Stiles says quietly, absently stroking Peter's stomach with his thumb. "If you're uncomfortable—" 

Peter rolls his eyes again and sighs. "I'm not uncomfortable. I'm bored." 

Stiles bites back a grin and leans in to lick a stripe up Peter's torso, his hands moving to Peter's waist. "I'm not," he whispers against Peter's skin, the bottom of Peter's rib cage barely detectable under his lips. He latches on and mouths at the spot, pressing indents into Peter's skin with his teeth. Peter stiffens beneath his wet lips, and Stiles slides his hand down Peter's waist and over the band of his boxers, pausing when he feels his fingertips graze Peter's still half-hard cock. He smirks and sucks hard at Peter's skin, fisting Peter's cock and pumping it slowly. Once, twice, three times, and he twists a little when he reaches the head. 

Peter breathes out hard, and it's only because Stiles is listening for it that he hears it. He pulls away and sinks to his knees, his thighs grateful for the rest. He stares at Peter's cock and licks his lips. He wants to experiment, to see what works when Peter's not forcing him to stay put so he can fuck Stiles's mouth, but, given the trembling state of Stiles's exhausted body, he should probably try to make this fast. He grabs Peter's hip with one hand and wraps his other around Peter's cock and sucks on the head, pointing his tongue and licking the underside before he slides his hand up to the base and licks and sucks stripes up to his fingers until Peter's slick and hard against his lips. He slides his hand down midway and sucks on the head again, fluttering his tongue against Peter's skin. He looks up through his eyelashes, meeting Peter's intense gaze, and finally earns himself a wry, breathless moan. 

He hums, pleased, and takes Peter in his mouth until he reaches his hand, then slowly works Peter deeper, pumping himself up and down until his hand reaches the base of Peter's dick and his mouth aches. He pulls away with a pop, sliding his hand down and rubbing wet circles around the head, and watches Peter's heaving chest. "Good?" 

Peter stays silent for a moment, watching as Stiles licks his lips and slides his hands down Peter's inner thighs. "You've improved," Peter says noncommittally. 

"Tch." Stiles shakes his head and brings a hand back behind Peter's cock to cup his balls and drag his finger up and down the underside of his cock. He grabs the base and nuzzles Peter's inner thigh, dragging another moan out of him. He grins against Peter's skin. He'll show him improvement. 

He uses his hands to pump Peter's cock until his mouth isn't so sore, then adds his tongue, licking up Peter's cock until it's slick once more, and swallows him down again, paying special attention to the underside and balls. He teases out shudders and the occasional grunt, humming in appreciation when Peter finally hisses his name. He pulls away, in need of another break for his jaw, and says hoarsely, "The sooner you come for me, the sooner I let you down." 

Peter smirks, not even breathing hard. "Getting tired already?" 

Stiles shrugs, thinking. "Yeah, actually." He pushes himself off the ground, knees aching, and brushes the dirt off his pants. He eyes Peter up and down. "You know what, I'm actually completely exhausted, and sure, maybe I could get you off with a simple handjob, but that would be messy, and don't think I haven't noticed how you much of a neatfreak you are with your bloody handkerchiefs and weirdly organized pantry." 

"Stiles—" 

Stiles talks right over Peter's growl as he turns his back on him, grabbing his backpack off the ground. "So I'm gonna do you a solid and give you some time to simmer down." He walks away with a lift in his step, smacking his lips as Peter snarls and throws taunts at his back. 

Stiles salutes without looking back. "See ya later, buddy!" 

He grins. That'll teach him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to see some of the inspiration for the blowjob scene, check out the second half of this [gifset](http://perceptions3key.tumblr.com/post/98706403999/stubblehale-giveaway-3-11-stiles-peter)! It's so hot, omfg. (I'd post the original link, but their tumblr's gone.)
> 
> UPDATE on the update schedule as of 10/25/14: Because it's steterweek, I won't be posting the next chapter of Round Robin until the Wednesday after the week is over so that I can try to fit some drabbles and a longer fic in for each theme/day. 
> 
> So anyway, heads up: I'm gonna change the title of this fic when I post the last chapter. I'm thinking of something simple, like a chess/game term, or maybe something less cliche, like "slam on the accelerator (it's a long way down)", which, fun fact, is the title of my peterstiles playlist. Or maybe I'll take a phrase I really liked from one of these chapters and use that as the title. I dunno. Let me know if you have any thoughts.
> 
> *Dubcon specifics: Peter pisses Stiles off (ostensibly by not physically letting go of Stiles when Stiles tells him to, so there's that, too), so Stiles uses magic to slam him up against a tree and give him a blowjob. He does ask for and receive Peter's consent regarding the blowjob, but again, he has Peter basically stuck to a tree, and he's kind of an asshole when he asks for consent. Sooooo, heh.


	14. Breakthrough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> breakthrough: destruction of a seemingly strong defense, often by means of a sacrifice

Halfway to the Jeep, the thin line of magic connecting him and the captive Peter gets weaker and weaker. Just as Stiles turns back, the line snaps. So apparently distance is another fun new limitation of his. Hopefully it doesn't apply to wards.

"Shit." He looks around, half-expecting Peter to burst out of the bushes at any moment and slice his throat open. Or, option number two, the spell broke because Aiden arrived early, found Peter immobilized and killed him, so it'll be the evil twin who comes flying out of the bushes to slash Stiles's throat out instead. Stiles sways on the spot, wavering between running for his life –if he can even muster up the strength to run— and turning back to make sure his favorite psycho isn't dead on the ground. 

Aiden wouldn't have been able to get back by now, he reminds himself, and Deucalion and Kali are probably quite happy plotting world domination in Canada at the moment. So unless there's some new supernatural threat in Beacon Hills (good God, there better not), Peter's very much alive and well, and Stiles is truly fucked. 

He decides to book it to his car, every little crackling leaf and snap of a twig sending adrenaline shooting through his system. By the time he makes it to the tiny parking lot, a gravel cul-de-sac mostly hidden from the main road, he's sure it must be a miracle —or Peter's waiting till the last second to pin him down and kill him. Seeing as how miracles don't exist in Beacon Hills, Stiles is going with the latter. 

Stiles doesn't see any cars in the lot besides his and Peter's, so Peter's still got to be in the general vicinity. Stiles swallows, and a leaf rolls across the ground in front of him as he steps onto the gravel, making him cringe. Jesus, he thinks, grinding his teeth together. His footsteps crunch loudly across the ground, setting his nerves further on edge, and he is so fucked, Jesus Christ. What was he thinking, leaving Peter like that? He's going to  _die_. 

He fishes his keys out of his backpack, his craning neck cracking as he looks around, eyes darting from the sunlit exit road ahead of him to the shadowy forest behind him. He unlocks the car and touches the door handle. Nothing, holy shit. He peers in the backseat. Also nothing. Looks behind him. Still nothing. Dude, what if something actually did kill Peter? 

He opens the door, heart in his throat, and slings his backpack into the passenger's side, hurrying in after it. 

Right as his foot hits the footwell, Peter yanks his hands behind his back and grips the back of his skull, claws pricking the skin of his scalp, burning needlepoints of sensation barely shy of breaking the skin. Stiles has only enough time to curse before Peter's shoving his head down and maneuvering him into the back. "Ow, ow, ow," he chants, and then he's being unceremoniously shoved face first into the worn leather of his backseat and Peter's planting one leg in the footwell and sliding his knee between Stiles's thigh and the back of the seat. 

Peter leans over him, body heat soaking into Stiles's back, and says, "Hello, Stiles." 

One hand tightens around Stiles's wrist while the other shoves Stiles's face down against the seat, making his breath come out heavy and fast. "Hi, Peter," Stiles mumbles against the leather, nose aching. "Air please?" 

"Only because you were so gracious previously," Peter says above Stiles's neck, and for once Stiles is grateful for the gauze taped across it since it stops Peter from biting down. 

Peter lets up enough for Stiles to turn his face to the side and suck in a breath of air that comes out high-pitched and strained as Peter's hips settle against his ass, Stiles's legs bent at the knee so that the toes of his shoes hit the walls of his Jeep. "I don't think there's enough room for this," Stiles says uneasily. 

Peter hums as he curls his hand around the collar of Stiles's button down and tugs it down over Stiles's shoulders, wrenching them together. "Ow, fuck—what—" Stiles groans as Peter pulls the shirt all the way down his arms and winds the flannel over and around Stiles's wrists and hands. Peter pulls, and Stiles's shirt tightens around his wrists, binding them. Peter gives it a firm tug and hums in satisfaction, slipping his hands under Stiles's t-shirt and rutting slowly against Stiles's ass. "Much better," he says. 

"Of course, you'd—fuck," Stiles moans, long and low, as Peter's claws score lines down his back. He cranes his neck, trying to see. "Did you just draw blood!?" 

Peter's smiles and shoves Stiles's t-shirt up under his armpits. He slides his fingers through Stiles's hair and forces his cheek back down against the seat, ignoring Stiles's small noise of protest as he leans back on Stiles's thighs to examine his work. "Only a little," Peter says, finger pads tracing the stinging lines. Stiles chokes back a whimper. 

"What was that, Stiles?" Gripping Stiles's arms, Peter hovers over him and nips at his earlobe. "I couldn't hear you," he murmurs, his breath sending a shiver down Stiles's spine. Peter grinds down against Stiles's ass, the rasp of denim and Stiles's hitching lungs loud in the near silent car. He slides his hands over the skin of Stiles's hips, fingers dipping into Stiles's jeans and digging into his ass. 

Stiles shudders, cheek sliding against the leather. "Someone will see." 

Peter's hands slip under Stiles's hips and undoes the top button of Stiles's jeans. "Then you better cooperate and make this fast." He slides the zipper down and squeezes Stiles's cock, grip tight to the point of pain. Stiles groans, but Peter doesn't relent, leaning in to drag his nose down the side of Stiles's neck. "Is that going to be a problem?" 

Whimpering, Stiles twists his fingers, but the flannel winding between them restricts his movement too much to do anything. Peter grabs his face and tilts it just enough for their eyes to lock together, Stiles's abs straining as he tries to lift himself off the seat to ease the ache in his spine. Peter narrows his eyes, tapping a claw against Stiles's cheek. "Is it, Stiles?" 

Stiles glares. "You're just angry I made my point." 

"You're right, Stiles. I am angry. I'm angry you're so terrified of your own desires that you felt the need to prove yourself in the first place." He mouths at Stiles's skin below his jawline and fastens his teeth into it, skimming the claw of his index finger across the underside of Stiles's cock. 

Stiles makes a sound in the back of his throat, hips jerking. Peter releases his face and slams Stiles's hips down. Feet knocking against the window, Stiles lets his head drop to the seat, exhausted from the effort of holding it up. Peter mouths at the line of Stiles's shoulders. 

"Or maybe—" Stiles says, breathless, adrenaline making the sensations of Peter's fangs against his skin and the tight hold on his cock painfully clear, "—or maybe you're angry I stopped letting you treat me like a toy. Wasn't so fun, huh, being the vulnerable one for once?" 

Peter growls against Stiles's throat, nipping at the skin one last time before pulling away. Stiles groans as Peter releases his cock, his eyelids fluttering, and the next thing he knows, Peter's sliding his pants and boxers down to his knees and kneading his ass cheeks, slipping his thumb between them. 

Stiles shudders and makes an embarrassingly high-pitched noise as Peter slides his fingers down, teasing over Stiles's hole and brushing his balls. Stiles starts to rut against the seat only for Peter to slam a hand down on the small of his back, smashing Stiles's groin into the seat. "Fuck, come on," Stiles says, hands straining. He presses himself down against the seat harder, and all the added pressure does is make his cock ache more. "Just let me—" 

The clinking of Peter's belt being unbuckled cuts Stiles off, and he listens, body stilling, as Peter undoes his pants. "What—" Stiles swallows. "What are you doing?" 

A hand presses his shoulder down, and Peter's face comes into view, breath hot on Stiles's cheek. "Say the word and I'll stop," he whispers, intonation mimicking the way Stiles said it earlier. Stiles purses his lips in irritation, and Peter seems to take that as permission to pull back and prop Stiles's hips up a few inches so that most of Stiles's weight is on his chest and shoulders. It's only Peter's bruising hand on his hip that keeps him from collapsing back down. 

God, he must look obscene. He  _feels_ obscene, body sensitive and tense. "You're—with me—in the back of my car? Seriously?" Anticipation makes Stiles quiver under the hand on his hip. 

He hears the pop of a cap, and then two cool, slick fingers brush between his cheeks, making him jump and inhale sharply. "Well, I figure, after the stunt you pulled," Peter croons into the crook of Stiles's neck, circling his hole, "you deserve a good fucking." He presses the tip of his index finger in, the stinging, wet intrusion making Stiles's entire body jerk. "Don't you?" 

Stiles starts to say something, but instead his words come out a garbled mess of syllables as Peter pushes his finger in, fast and ruthless. He pumps it in and out once, then crooks it, making Stiles's body tremble, divided between rutting away and pushing back into it. Peter's lips glide over the line of his shoulders, pumping his index finger in and out again. Stiles bucks back into it, but Peter jerks his hips back into place and holds him still. Stiles whimpers, and Peter presses his second finger in up to the first knuckle. "What was that, Stiles?" 

Stiles tries to buck again, his hips shuddering in place under Peter's firm hand. "God, Peter, just—" He cuts himself off with a frustrated groan, pressing his cheek hard against the seat. 

Peter pulls his fingers out completely, dragging another groan out from Stiles. "Oh, I'm sorry, am I making you uncomfortable?" He fastens his teeth into Stiles's shoulder and starts bringing a bruise to the surface. 

Peter's slick fingers trail up the crack of Stiles's ass, grazing the skin, dragging Stiles's answer out of him, angry and pleading. "Jesus Christ, just fucking—fuck me already, Peter.  _Please_ , goddamnit—" Stiles's voice hitches as Peter slides his fingers back down to his hole, teasing and barely there. Stiles tries to shove himself back into it, but Peter's claws bite into his hip, holding him in place so all he can do is jerk. He presses his forehead into the leather and closes his eyes, his voice dropping, quiet and breathless. "Please." 

"Not yet." Peter shoves his two fingers in all the way up to the third knuckle, a fast burn that steals the last of Stiles's breath. Peter hums in smug amusement and pumps them in and out, filling the car with wet, filthy noises until Stiles is a sweaty, gasping wreck, jerking reflexively and pushing himself into it. Peter scissors his fingers once, twice, three times to stretch him then adds a third, and it's too much but not enough all at once, and Stiles babbles, begging him to hurry up until Peter laughs in his ear and says, "Oh, I should've done this weeks ago." 

"Shut up," Stiles says, lips catching on the leather. "I would've—ngh—" Peter crooks his fingers, "—punched you in the face." 

Peter bites down on Stiles's neck and soothes the sting with his tongue. "You would've been adorable trying." He finds another angle and crooks his fingers again, hitting a spot that makes Stiles stiffen and keen, breath stuttering. "There we go," Peter murmurs. 

Stiles shudders and presses his cheek against the seat, panting. "Do—do that again." 

Peter hums in consideration, pulling his three fingers out and replacing them with two, finding Stiles's prostate again. He strokes his fingers over it in smooth little motions that overwhelm Stiles nearly to the point of blacking out. Peter's fingers disappear, leaving Stiles empty and quivering, bereft. 

He exhales shakily and tries to catch his breath, his hips sinking only for Peter's other hand to slip over the crest of Stiles's pelvis and slide down to the base of his cock, shoving Stiles's ass back up again. Stiles blinks to clear his vision and wiggles his torso forward to ease the aching of his curling spine, forced to press the top of his forehead down against the seat. More slick sounds come from behind him, and it definitely isn't coming from anything Peter's doing to him. "Oh, fuck," Stiles groans. Peter hums in amusement, stroking Stiles's hip with his thumb, and Stiles blinks slowly, words coming out in a breath, "You—you always walk around with lube in your pocket?" 

The noises slow down into one long drag. "Not until recently." Peter leans back down over Stiles and caresses his slick hands over Stiles's ass before sliding them inward to pull his cheeks apart, and all Stiles can do is press his bound wrists against the small of his back and try to hold himself up, the toes of his shoes hitting the window hard. 

The head of Peter's cock nudges his hole, and Stiles clenches instinctively, breath catching. Peter leans down even closer, the soft cotton of his shirt brushing the sensitive skin of Stiles's arms and back. Peter skims his lips up Stiles's jaw line. "Relax," he murmurs, nibbling at the corner. He slides the hand on Stiles's hip to the skin below Stiles's belly button, taking most of Stiles's weight. Stiles exhales, melting into it, and Peter pushes in before Stiles's body can stop him. 

Peter doesn't give him time to adjust, doesn't ask Stiles if he's okay, just thrusts into him up to the hilt, waits until Stiles forgets the pain and tries to move, then holds him still and pounds into him, frantic and demanding, grunting as he cuts off Stiles's cry of shock and hitching moans until it's all Stiles can do to breathe against the wet leather of the seat. 

Being fucked by Peter is like being sucked into a whirlpool, a rush of pain and bursts of pleasure that steal Stiles's breath away and leave him completely incoherent, his mind clouded by heat and want and the harsh slaps of Peter driving into him. Stiles tugs mindlessly at his wrists, aching to touch his cock as Peter slides against his prostate. Peter's other hand joins the one on Stiles's groin and grips the base of Stiles's cock, squeezing tightly. Stiles whimpers as Peter slows down, his pace less frantic and more thorough. 

Peter moans as he pushes against Stiles's prostate. "You want me to jerk you off, Stiles?" He strokes a finger against Stiles's cock, a tiny little movement that sends Stiles pushing into Peter's hand and pulling himself off Peter's cock, making them both moan. Peter drives back in and tightens his grip around Stiles's cock, setting a slow, thorough pace. "Do you?" 

"Yeah." Stiles's voice trembles. 

"Then say you're sorry." 

"Unh—" Stiles groans. "Peter—" He wants to say something snappy, wants to do  _something_ to prove he was totally justified because he  _was_ , but it's too hard to find the words through the fog of his mind. All he can do is whine and press himself back onto Peter's cock and rock forward into his too tight grip. 

Peter starts sliding his fist down Stiles's cock, inch by inch, his painful grip making Stiles whine. "Sorry," Stiles gasps. "Sorry, Peter, oh God, sorry, sorry—" 

Peter stills his hands and stops mid-roll of his hips, his cock half out of Stiles's ass and his breath hot in Stiles's ear. "For what?" 

"For—for—" Peter rolls his hips forward and buries himself in Stiles's ass all the way up to his balls. "Fuck! For holding you up against the tree—and—" Peter pulls slowly out of him, still not letting up on Stiles's cock. "I don't know, for—fuck—" 

"For not finishing what you started," Peter growls. He loosens his grip and starts pumping Stiles's cock in earnest, stealing any response Stiles might offer, and it only takes a few strokes before white floods Stiles's vision and he comes all over the seat with a moan, ass clenching around Peter's cock. Peter follows with a grunt and bites down on Stiles's shoulder next to the healing marks from Kali's claws. His grip loosens on Stiles, and Stiles collapses against the seat, slipping off Peter's cock and bumping the top of his head against the door. 

"Holy shit," Stiles breathes, lax and warm. Everything hurts, his joints and spine and, God, his ass, all the little bruises and scratch marks Peter left stinging barely enough to make their presence known, and it all feels good, so good. Absolutely perfect. 

He just had sex with Peter Hale in the back of his Jeep. 

"Holy shit," Stiles groans, tone much less satisfied and much more horrified. "Unggg," Stiles groans, smashing his face into the leather. "Fuck." 

Peter tsks in amused disdain behind him and smooths a hand over the swell of Stiles's ass. 

Stiles's arms strain towards Peter's hand, his fingers brushing Peter's wrist. "Hands," he mumbles. 

"Oh, I don't know," Peter drawls, lingering over Stiles's ass before plucking at the flannel wrapped around his wrists. "Maybe I'll keep you like this. Take you home and handcuff you to my bed, keep you ready and waiting to be used." Peter rests his palm on Stiles's spine under his hands, thumb stroking Stiles's skin. 

It takes Stiles a second too long to say, "God, you're such a creep." He shifts, too warm under Peter's fingers, and his stomach slides against his own come. "Oh, shit. My Jeep! This is gonna take forever to clean." He groans and smashes his forehead into the leather. "I'm so sorry, baby." 

"God," Peter sighs in resignation, and it's that more than anything else that stops Stiles from panicking in the aftermath of sex with Peter Hale, because, hey, he's Stiles Stilinski, and he's so awesome he can make a grown-ass werewolf serial killer bemoan the state of his life. He can handle this. 

Peter begins untying Stiles's hands, and Stiles closes his eyes and inhales deeply. It feels like the first full breath of air he's had in years. 

 

o—o—o

  

Stiles spends most of his shower staying conscious and poking at the bruises hidden under his skin, still invisible but painful to the touch, until his dad shouts for him to hurry up, his voice muffled by the bathroom door. "Stiles! We're in a drought!" 

Well, it's been raining plenty in Beacon Hills. 

But Beacon Hills isn't exactly the standard for California, either, so…. 

He scrubs a layer of skin off and scrambles to put himself together, clumsily dressing the wounds on the back of his neck and using the tape to hide the hickey right under his jaw. He stuffs his sexed up clothes into a tiny pile at the back of his closet. Him and Peter? Peter and him? Totally never happened. 

He's had sex with both Lydia and Peter. That's so screwed up. 

God, he even has a type. Narcisstic, ambitious, controlling, intelligent, pragmatic, not completely stable in the strict sense of the definition, only partially evil— 

 _"When I look into Lydia's eyes, I only see 50 percent evil.... All right, maybe 60. But no more than 40 on a good day!"_  

Honestly, he should have seen this coming. 

" _I'm not letting go_ ," Peter had said, and maybe Stiles really is in a little over his head. Maybe it's not just Stiles's magic that Peter wants. Maybe it really is just Stiles. All of Stiles. 

If Peter was a hero, or a genuinely good person, or even a mere jackass, then the thought of him wanting Stiles would probably send Stiles running through the house shouting and fist-pumping for joy, but Peter is Peter. Stiles can handle the idea of remaking Beacon Hills with him, of fortifying it and scaring threats away, but he can't bring himself to imagine  _more_ with him. And if, by some very possible chance, Peter  _doesn't_ get to be the one to kill Deucalion? 

Stiles is only seventeen. Hasn't he fucked himself over enough already? 

So him and Peter –not a thing anymore. Not that they ever were a thing. They only  _had_  a thing, but they're not actually going to be… a thing. At most, they'll be like… business partners. Business partners who do the dirty work that needs to be done to keep everyone else safe and blissfully ignorant, and nothing more. 

"What are you doing?" Scott's voice asks from behind him. 

Stiles whips around, knocking his hands against the walls of the closet and hitting his head against the rod holding up his army of plaid button-downs. "What are  _you_  doing!? Trying to give me a heart attack?" He cricks his neck and straightens the towel on his waist as he takes in the sight of Scott standing in front of his window, a stuffed backpack and sleeping roll loaded onto his back. "Are we going camping?" Stiles asks cautiously, closing the closet doors behind him as subtly as possible. He prays Scott doesn't think to take a good whiff of the room. 

The muscles in Scott's jaw jumps. "I wanna go to Quebec," he says. 

"You wanna what now?" Stiles drags his hand down his face. "Scott, dude, I know you wanna find her, we all do, but you can't just fuck off to Quebec and track her down. Quebec's  _huge_. It's, like, twice the size of Texas. You can't—" 

"I have to do something, Stiles! I can't just sit around and—" 

Isaac tumbles into Stiles's room through the window. 

"I have a front door!" 

Isaac barely glances at Stiles before crossing his arms and looking at Scott. "I'll go with you." 

"What the fuck—" 

"Really?" Scott asks, so painfully hopeful that Stiles wants to stab someone in the face. Preferably Isaac. 

Isaac shrugs. "Sure. As long as you promise not to ditch me like you did today." 

Scott manages to look a little guilty. "I thought you'd say no." 

"And you thought  _I'd_  say yes!?" Stiles shouts. "Scott, are you out of your mind!?" He points his finger at Isaac. "And you! What the hell is wrong with you? Don't you remember what Deucalion did to you?" Stiles clenches his fingers midair, desperate to strangle someone. "Because let me tell you, he's set up plenty of traps in case someone finds out where he's got Scott's mom, and now you wanna waltz right into them? No. Don't do that." He buries his hands into his hair and pulls. 

Isaac turns to Scott, shrugging. "He has a point." 

Scott opens his mouth to argue, but then Stiles's dad opens the door. "What—" He pauses, glancing between the werewolves and the window. His brows furrow together. "We have a front door, you know." 

Scott has the good grace to look a little guilty. "Sorry," he mumbles. 

Stiles crosses his arms. "Scott wants to go to Quebec," he says to his dad, aka his shiny new trump card. Scott looks at Stiles in betrayal, but Stiles's dad looks at Scott in an odd mixture of sympathy and disappointment, and that's it for Scott. 

One two-minute, impassioned parental-figure-speech later, Scott's sitting on the bed, shoulders slumping as he whispers, "I don't know what to do." 

"You do what Melissa would ask of you if she was here," Stiles's dad says. "You do well in school, you get ready for the next lacrosse season, and you keep working for Deaton. You live your life." 

Scott swallows, staring at the rug. "But—" 

Stiles's dad rests his hand on Scott's shoulder. "You're the center of your mother's universe. The best thing you can do for her is stay safe." 

Stiles meets his dad's eyes fleetingly before he glances at Scott, blinking. Stiles swallows. He can practically feel his dad's sadness and loss boring into his skull, and Stiles would do anything to fill that aching gap between them, but telling him the whole truth is too much of a risk, and Stiles isn't built to put himself first. It's not in his nature.  

"Okay," Scott says, soft but firm with acceptance. 

Stiles's dad claps Scott on the shoulder. "You're a good kid, Scott," he murmurs before standing straight and crossing his arms to address all three of them. "I'm ordering pizza. Any requests?" 

"Dad,” Stiles starts to scold. 

"Stiles, I can eat one greasy meal and live to tell the tale." 

Stiles grumbles a few more protests, but they don't do much good when Scott perks up and Isaac practically salivates, leaving Stiles's dad shaking his head in amusement as he leaves the room to send in the order. 

"So this was great, really," Stiles starts, intending to make them leave so he can change into some actual clothes and maybe spray cologne all over the wadded up pile hidden in the back of his closet, when Isaac kindly interrupts him mid-sentence. 

"Why does it smell like Peter in here?" 

"Peter," Stiles croaks, swinging his hands and clasps them together. "Peter who?" 

Isaac stares at him. "Who do you think, dumbass?" 

Scott sniffs and stares at Stiles. "It does smell like Peter." 

Stiles squints. "You can actually recognize his scent? Creepy." 

Scott narrows his eyes. "Stiles, what did you do?" 

Caught, Stiles thinks fast. "I'm just trying to help, Scott, and I'm using all the resources I've got. Peter's one of them. You know that. You've worked with him, too." 

"Yeah, but…." Scott shrugs. "Maybe you're working with him too much. First you're doing magic with him—" 

Stiles winces. "Learning," he clarifies. "And not  _with_  him. He was just… there. He's got books and stuff." 

Scott frowns. "And now you're working with him to find my mom. I dunno, I just…. I don't trust him alone with you." 

Stiles shrugs. "I don't trust him alone with anybody, so…." 

Scott's mouth tightens. "Did you guys figure anything out?" 

Stiles shakes his head, glancing downward. "Sorry, Scott." 

Scott looks away, muscle in his jaw jumping. "Then what good is he?" He stands up and looks out the window before whirling back on Stiles. "I don't think you should spend time with him, Stiles. He's no good." 

Stiles arches an eyebrow. "You can't police how I spend my time, Scott." 

"Then bring me with you next time. Stiles, he—" 

"Scott, if I bring you I won't get anything useful out of him. Not really. He'll be too busy screwing with your psyche." 

"It's not my psyche I'm worried about! It's yours. Ever since you started using magic, he's been all over you. You think I haven't smelled it? I have, but I thought –I thought you knew what you were doing. But, Stiles –he's only using you." 

"Yeah," Stiles snaps. "And I'm using him. What's your point?" 

"I… I'm worried about you. You know him; he's got some big plan, and I think –I think it involves you." 

Stiles jerks his thumb at the detective/serial-killer lookalike board behind him. "I don't know if you've noticed, buddy, but I've got plenty of plans, too, and most of them involve him." 

Scott crosses his arms, shoulders tensing. "I know, but –but you're  _you_ , so they're good plans and –he's just…. He's gotta be manipulating you somehow." 

Stiles shrugs. "Yeah, I know. It's sort of his shtick. But if anyone can handle his manipulation, it's me. You know I'm no angel, Scott." Stiles watches Scott carefully, who looks away, head tilted down. Stiles swallows. "You do know that, don't you? Scott?" 

Scott sighs. "Yeah, but you're  _good_ , Stiles." Jaw set, he meets Stiles's eyes. "You're my best friend, and you have no idea how good you are." 

Stiles looks away, the sound of Ethan's skin splitting echoing in his ears. "Scott," he croaks, but his throat closes up on him before he can say anymore. 

"You're a good person, Stiles. And Peter –Peter's evil. He won't hesitate to take advantage of you." 

Stiles grinds his teeth together, glaring at the ground as he considers how to work this. Scott's protectiveness is going to be the death of him. 

Mind made up, Stiles meets Scott's gaze, strong and unflinching. "What do you think I'll do if the alphas kill you, Scott? If they kill you and my dad and Lydia and Allison, even Isaac, and –and even Derek and Cora? What do you think I'll do if they tear all of you apart in front of me and leave me for dead?" 

Scott looks unbearably sympathetic. "Stiles, that's not—" 

"Now imagine that's only half of it. Imagine that I survive, barely, and the alphas take over the town while I have to sit paralyzed in the hospital, in agony, for years with only the memory of your deaths for company. Do you have any idea how I would feel, just existing, alone and vulnerable with them living here in Beacon Hills right alongside me?" 

"Stiles, that's not going to happen." 

"That's not my point. You know me, Scott. If all that happened, tell me what I would do once I grew strong enough to finally take action." 

Scott shakes his head, opening and closing his mouth. 

Stiles gives him a thin-lipped smile. "Peter's twisted, broken…. He's a power-hungry, manipulative asshole who's only out for himself… and maybe occasionally Derek and Cora when it's convenient. But he's not evil, Scott. And I'm not good." 

Scott stares at Stiles, eyebrows knitting together, eyes wide and lips pressed together in that little look of understanding and wonder that Stiles can never stand for very long. "You'd never turn into him, Stiles. You're better than that." 

 _"At least he didn't use me as bait,"_ Danny had said.

Stiles sucks in a stuttering breath, the confession pulled out of him by Scott's sheer faith. "Scott, I have to tell you—" 

Scott grips him by the shoulders. "If any of that happened, you'd find something to live for. I know you would." 

Stiles shrugs him away, shoulders slumping. "Look what Peter found," he says. Scott has so much faith in him, and Stiles just…. Stiles just isn't built like that. He can never be like Scott. The most he can do is make sure no one breaks him. 

"Stiles – _someone_. You'd find  _someone_ to live for." 

Stiles sighs. "…Maybe. But I understand where Peter's coming from, and you need to trust me on that. So let me handle him. All right?" 

"Yeah, but—" 

"And, Scott," Stiles stands up, a tightness in his chest. "Even if I did find someone to fight for, I would still do terrible things." He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. "I'm not like you." 

Scott's forehead wrinkles. "Yes, you—" 

Stiles reaches out for Scott, then hesitates, his loose fist hanging in the air between them. "I'm not. So don't die, Scott. Don't go to Quebec. Don't walk into any traps. Don't do anything stupid. Okay?" Scott's jaw flexes, and damnit, Stiles  _knew_ he hadn't let Quebec go. "Scott." 

Scott watches him like he's seeing him for the first time, and what he sees is a tragedy. Stiles glares at him. "Okay," Scott says. 

Stiles smiles a little. 

"Well, that was freakishly touching," Isaac says from the desk chair, making both Scott and Stiles start in surprise before turning to him. "But I also meant to say: it smells like sex in here, too." 

Fucking Isaac. Scott's mouth falls open, and he looks at Stiles, eyes wide. "Did you just—" 

"I was in the shower!" Stiles snaps, gesturing at his towel and still slightly damp body. "What do you expect?" 

Scott leans forward slightly to say in a hushed whisper, "You didn't jerk off to Peter, did you?" 

"No," Stiles says, perhaps a little too defensively. But hey, it is technically the truth, so it's fine. 

Scott sighs in relief. "Oh, good. I thought—" He shakes his head. "Forget it." 

Stiles can't resist. "Well, I mean, I'm not saying I wouldn't. Have you  _seen_ the guy?" 

"Stiles!" Scott smacks himself in the forehead. 

Isaac, meanwhile, narrows his eyes at the floor and hums in thought. "I dunno, sometimes his v-necks can be a little too… extreme. And the goatee –it's not always very flattering, really, is it?" 

Stiles blinks at him then gives a little half-nod of acknowledgement. "Yeah, well, you tell him that. See how it goes." 

"I think I'll pass," says Isaac. 

Scott stares at the both of them, mouth agape. 

 

o—o—o

  

Stiles stares at his ceiling all night. He'd only eaten a couple slices of pizza to appease Scott and his dad. Now he feels hungry, but the thought of food makes him queasy. He feels like paper mache, like he might crumble any moment. 

He texts Scott to make sure he hasn't left Beacon Hills, and Scott promises he's staying put.  _You need to get some rest_ , he tells Stiles. 

Stiles tries out several different positions, but sleep refuses to come. He creates a small breeze for himself at one point. All it does is make him shiver. 

The Nemeton tugs at him in the middle of the night, and Stiles sits up. He's better able to detect it now, a weak urge to move in his gut. There's no point in trying to sleep now, but he can't just lie there, fighting himself. Peter wasn't wrong. It is killing him. He won't visit it again until he has something else to give. 

He pulls out Peter's book, handcuffs his ankle to the bedframe, and hesitates when he opens the book to the simple, spoken fire-conjuring spell. He's seen it before, but he'd always passed it over. 

Tonight, though, he decides to learn it. 

If there's anything that'll make him less…  _appealing_  to Peter, that's it. 

 

o—o—o

  

He's exhausted the next morning, as usual, the Nemeton a sharp ache in his bones. He's starting to think he might make it to the end of the schoolday fully conscience, doing one thing after another on autopilot, when he collapses during the five minute warm-up at the beginning of gym class.

Gym class, of all things.

Isaac's in it with him and takes him to the nurse, trying to talk to him all the while, but five minutes later, Stiles can't remember what the hell they said to each other.

The nurse sends Stiles home after that, and he tells her his dad's coming to pick him up. What he actually does is drive straight to the forest preserve. It's a miracle he doesn't fall asleep at the wheel.

Dragging his bat behind him, he walks through the woods to a steady beat of crunching leaves towards the trap for Aiden. It's such a nondescript place, hardly different from anywhere else in the forest, that the only reason he's able to find it is by using an app on his phone to track its saved coordinates.

He considers calling Peter and asking him for –for help, really, maybe to catch him a deer or some shit if Aiden's a no-show, but Stiles needs to distance himself from Peter. He really does. So he'll save Peter as a last resort, for if he finds an empty, untouched spiral where Aiden ought to be. But if he finds Aiden on his own, he'll handle it himself.

He finds Aiden. He handles it himself. Holds him aloft as he struggles and snarls. Follows the Nemeton's call and lets it drown out Aiden's screams and tears. He holds the werewolf's body down against the rings of the tree and watches him shudder and gasp and go still. 

He considers saying he's sorry, but he's getting tired of lying.


	15. Prophylaxis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prophylaxis: a move that frustrates an opponent's plan or tactic - a strategy in which a player frustrates tactics initiated by the opponent until a mistake is made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for _choking_ because i'm joining the trash brigade and have no control over these characters. *specifics in the endnotes
> 
> also, a little bit more _bloodplay_. and _body desecration_ (because you can't just leave dead bodies lying around the woods willy nilly, okay?)
> 
> If you don't like reading porn, I suggest skimming for the dialogue.

 

Stiles wakes up slumped against the gnarled trunk of one of the trees on the border of the Nemeton's clearing, an annoying knot digging into his back. He sits up and groans, back cracking. Hunger makes his stomach grumble, but he has a body to take care of before he can eat. 

He glances at his phone. His dad (hopefully) thinks he's in cross country practice right now, and he'll be working late anyway. Stiles also missed a call from Peter around twenty minutes ago. There's a vague text from him asking if Stiles is ready yet. Stiles ignores them both. 

He eyes Aiden's body where it's sprawled across the Nemeton. What the hell is he supposed to do with it? He can't burn it without making the forest rangers freak out about a possible forest fire, and he can't bury it without a shovel. Can't sink it, either. He doesn't know where the nearest lake is, and he doesn't have anything to weigh the body down with even if he did. 

He does have his bat, though. And now, no longer on the brink of death (and god, it feels good, doesn't it), he's got the energy to use it. 

He smashes the body's fingers to ruin their prints. Smashes the neck until he can magic the head off. Smashes its teeth to ruin the dental records and knocks the head into the ravine like he's golfing. Seriously. Fuck Aiden. 

His phone goes off while he's trudging back to dismember the rest of the body and scatter it around for scavengers to pick off. He wipes his hands on his unfortunate hoodie and checks caller i.d. – Peter again. He hesitates. He needs some distance, true, but he still needs to work with Peter to take care of Beacon Hills. 

He answers. "Yo, what's up?" 

A moment of silence on Peter's end as leaves crunch beneath Stiles's feet. 

"Where are you?" Peter asks, voice carefully calm. 

Stiles swallows and stops walking, heart rate picking up. He berates himself silently. All it takes for him to start feeling nervous is Peter's calm-pissed-off voice on the phone? Seriously? Stiles needs to cool it. "Oh, out. You know, the usual place. I'm just… taking care of business. Like I'm supposed to." Why the fuck does Stiles sound guilty? Why does he feel guilty? He literally has no reason whatsoever to feel guilty. 

Well, maybe for all the murder. But definitely not for refraining from involving Peter. 

"Alone?" Peter's voice comes out cold and threatening. Stiles would totally be touched by his concern if he wasn't fighting the urge to run for his life. 

"Yeah. So?" 

Peter growls, the rumble of it ruined by the tinny sound of the phone, but it's enough to make Stiles's stomach drop anyway. "Dude, Peter, it's not a big—" 

"Stay by the tree and stay aware of your surroundings. Do you understand?" 

Stiles frowns. "Is something wrong?" 

"I'm taking precautions." Peter's voice hardens. "Precautions that wouldn't be necessary if you wouldn't have been so impulsive." 

"Oh, come on—" 

"Stiles." 

Stiles grinds his teeth together, then slumps. "Fine," he sighs. He looks back wistfully in the direction of his Jeep. Maybe he could ditch Peter— 

"And Stiles?" 

"What!?" he snaps. 

"Don't make me hunt you down." 

Stiles swallows and laughs hollowly. "Okay," he says, voice a little too high-pitched for his liking. 

He looks over at the partial body laying besides the tree, blood and bits splattered across the dry ground. The tiny green stalk growing out of the center of the Nemeton isn't so tiny anymore, standing about two feet tall and an inch thick, and tiny green vines creep towards it from the cracks of the bark. Stiles sits on the tree stump and sighs. This is not how normal trees are supposed to grow. 

He flicks the top leaf of the stalk. "This is all your fault, you know." 

The Nemeton doesn't respond.

  

o—o—o

  

Peter makes Stiles burn his clothes on the spot, and Stiles has to walk up to his apartment in designer jeans too wide at the waist and a stupid v-neck that… actually fits him pretty well. But still. It's a v-neck. It sucks. Peter wants to steal his shoes, too, but the burning rubber soles might make too much smoke, and Stiles would look weird walking up to Peter's apartment barefoot. Admittedly, he looks weird anyway, but barefoot would have been worse. 

Stiles makes fun of the v-neck, expecting some banter, but Peter stays silent, even when he shoves Stiles into the bathroom. He doesn't make a single creepy comment. Just says, "Take a shower," and leaves. 

Showers. Showers are the worst. Too much time to think. 

Stiles killed two people. 

He finishes fast and wraps a towel around his waist. He stares at himself in the mirror. He's pale as he's supposed to be, not alabaster white and waxy like he was under the drain of the Nemeton. Gone are the leaves and bloody, matted knots from his hair, now wet and stuck to his forehead. 

Magic whispers under his skin, playful and fast. He feels like he's staring at his body from afar, like the shadows under his eyes and the tense muscles of his shoulders exist separately from himself, and he's floating somewhere above, pulling the strings. 

He's tortured and murdered two people, and he doesn't regret it. 

He'll do it again. 

"What do you see?" Peter asks. 

Stiles blinks into awareness, seeing Peter, blank-faced, standing behind him in the doorway with his arms crossed. Stiles glances back at his reflection. Air flows in and out of his lungs, a slow, heavy rhythm within the space and silence of his body. "…A monster." 

Peter steps forward, clothed chest pressing against Stiles's chilled back. He grips Stiles's arm with his right hand and slides his left up Stiles's chest, pressing his hot palm down over Stiles's heart. He nuzzles Stiles's neck and breathes in deeply, closing his eyes. "You're beautiful," he murmurs, lengthening claws pricking the glistening skin over Stiles's heart. 

Stiles shivers and bows his head. Tiny drops of blood well up around Peter's claws. 

"Absolutely beautiful." Peter slides his right hand down Stiles's arm to tangle their fingers together. He peels his claws out of Stiles's skin and curls his hand around Stiles's neck, his fingers pressing into the tender flesh beneath the corners of Stiles's jaw. "And terribly reckless." His fingers tighten around Stiles's throat, cutting off most of Stiles's air. 

"Peter—" Stiles chokes, jerking forward to escape, but Peter holds Stiles there between his body and the countertop, cutting off even more of Stiles's air. Stiles tries to use his magic to force Peter away, but Peter grinds Stiles's fingers together until Stiles thinks they might break. Stiles stills and wheezes, trembling as his vision blurs in and out with the audible pounding of his heart. 

"What were you thinking? Going after Aiden alone," Peter chastises. He mouths at the crook of Stiles's neck and bites down with human teeth, making indents in Stiles's skin. Stiles shudders and fights to suck in a wisp of air. "He could have been waiting for you." Tiny rivulets of blood run down Stiles's chest from where Peter's claws had bitten into his skin. "Could have taken you from behind." Peter grinds into Stiles's ass, shoving him into the counter. He pulls Stiles closer by the throat, cutting off the last of Stiles's air and making his entire spine arch. 

Stiles's whole world turns a hazy gold as his throat and lungs spasm, wracking Stiles's body. 

"He could have killed you so very easily." Peter buries his nose behind Stiles's ear and inhales. "You shouldn't have gone without me." His words sound far and distant, as if from the end of a tunnel. 

"S—" Stiles starts to say, but he doesn't have enough air. His ears roar, and his whole body jerks to get away, but Peter holds him tighter, molding himself to Stiles's back. He lets up only enough for Stiles to suck in a desperate breath. "Sorry," Stiles forces out in a harsh whisper. 

"Good." Peter releases him, and Stiles collapses forward, knees buckling. He braces himself against the counter, coughing and gulping down air, arms trembling. Peter doesn't give him time to recover. He grabs Stiles by the waist and strides out of the bathroom. 

Nearly tripping over his towel when it falls off in the hallway, Stiles stumbles to keep up as Peter drags him into the bedroom. Peter stops inside the doorway and nudges Stiles towards the bed, a ridiculous, king-size thing with steel gray sheets and too many pillows. "On your back," Peter says. 

Still catching his breath, Stiles gapes at Peter and tries to speak, his voice too hoarse at first. He clears his throat. "W-what?" 

Peter tilts his head just so. "Stiles." 

Limbs shaking, Stiles gets on the bed and stops, kneeling and looking back at Peter, who watches him expectantly. Stiles lies down on his back, not sure what to do with himself, and leans back against the pillows. He crosses his arms, hugging himself, and looks at Peter. 

Peter watches him carefully, eyes trailing down Stiles's drying, naked body. Stiles fights the urge to shrink into the bed. For all that they've fucked, Peter's never really seen all of him. 

Peter meets Stiles's eyes again. "Wait there," he says before disappearing into his walk-in closet. 

Stiles only gets a few seconds to breathe and wonder what the hell he's doing before Peter walks out with a pair of leather handcuffs. 

Stiles scrambles off the bed away from Peter towards the window. "Oh, no, no. Let's not." 

Peter stops. "Stiles. Get back on the bed." 

Stiles shakes his head, eyes flicking towards the door, which is, unfortunately, on Peter's side of the bed. "You know, I... I've been doing some thinking, and I don't think we should be doing this. The sex thing. Anymore. I mean, it's been fun, but—" 

"I won't hurt you." 

Stiles brushes his throat, swallowing. "You did." 

"I was making a point." 

"I don't want you to make any more points." 

Peter sighs and walks over to the bedside table on his side. He sets the handcuffs down and ambles around the bed towards Stiles, fingers grazing the sheets. It's too casual a walk, too calculated to set Stiles at ease. "I was worried, Stiles," Peter says, stalling at the corner to finger the tiny, rounded knob at the top of the bed post. He makes his concern sound like a threat. 

Stiles's swallow sounds like a gunshot, and Peter looks up, eyes hard. He stalks forward. 

Heart racing, Stiles stumbles back as Peter presses forward, only stopping when his back hits the hard line of Peter's desk. Instead of pushing closer, Peter stops at the edge of Stiles's space, eyes narrowed in displeasure. "There are few people I care about," Peter says. "Three, to be precise." He glances away for a second before meeting Stiles's gaze again. "I want you to value your safety as much as you value Scott and your father's." 

Now  _that_  shocks a little resolve into Stiles's system. He clenches his teeth together and lifts his chin. "I don't work that way." 

Peter leans forward. "Then  _try_." 

Stiles throws up his hands. "For fuck's sake, Peter, I'm a reckless little shit and you know it." He leans back. "It's half the reason you noticed me in the first place." He shakes his head and sighs. "So fucking deal with it." 

Stiles tries to push past him, but Peter grabs him by the arms and spins him back around, walking him back towards the bed. He pulls Stiles close, grip painful. "Then don't be surprised when it upsets me." 

"Normal people don't choke their significant others when they're upset!" 

Peter blinks once, the anger replaced by smile crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Stiles doubletakes at the change, and Peter pouts. "I wasn't going to seriously hurt you." 

Stiles gapes. "Dude—" The backs of Stiles's legs hit the bed, and Peter pushes his torso down and knocks his legs apart, making Stiles sputter and twist. He's been tricked. "Hey—!" 

Forearm weighing down on Stiles's collarbone, Peter smiles at him and brushes his damp hair away from his face. "I was being careful." 

Stiles swats his hand away. "You were  _choking_ —" 

Peter kisses him, hands slipping under Stiles's torso to slide down his back and squeeze his ass. Stiles moans but turns his head away, pushing at Peter's shoulders. Peter dips his head and drags his teeth up Stiles's throat. "Hold up, hold up," Stiles gasps. 

"Why?" Peter whispers right before massaging Stiles's ass cheeks and sucking on the tender skin at the corner of his jaw. 

"Peter," Stiles half-moans, eyes fluttering shut. Peter hums in appreciation, and Stiles tangles a hand in his hair, the other one clenching around Peter's shirt. "I—I was just saying – _shit_ —I don't think we should—" Peter slips a finger between Stiles's cheeks and prods at his hole. "—ha— _have_  –fuck, would you slow down?" Peter drags his finger up and down Stiles's crack, fingertip light on Stiles's skin. His other hand pulls Stiles's cheek away for easier access. 

"Have what, Stiles?" Peter asks. He pulls away and kisses the flesh over Stiles's heart, tender and attentive. Stiles's eyes flutter shut, and Peter licks up one of the five tiny rivulets of blood left from his claws. 

Stiles inhales sharply, arching up into Peter's tongue. "Sex," Stiles says to the ceiling. "I don't think—" 

Peter licks up the fourth trail of blood and sucks. 

Stiles's breath hitches, but he's trying to make a point here. "—we should have sex. Anymore. Or I guess—" 

There goes the third, followed by another long suck. Peter laves at the tiny pinprick of a wound with his tongue before moving on to the second. 

"I— mean we shouldn't... We shouldn't start –this." 

Peter drags his tongue up the final line of blood and circles Stiles's nipple. He slides his hands towards Stiles's groin. 

"We shouldn't do this," Stiles mumbles, tilting his hips into Peter's palms. Peter bites down and tugs on Stiles's nipple, making Stiles whimper and strain into it. Peter lets go, and Stiles collapses down, panting. "I shouldn't," Stiles whispers, staring at the ceiling, hand still buried in Peter's hair. 

Peter pulls back and looks down at him. "Why?" 

Stiles's hands drop to his chest. "Because..." Stiles reasoned this out earlier, he knows he did. "Because..." He shakes his head, shrugging helplessly. 

"Because you don't trust me? Because I'm a murderer?" Peter cages Stiles between his arms and leans in. "A monster?" He smiles, wide and feral. 

Stiles swallows and looks away, lungs shuddering as he inhales. 

Peter sighs and sinks forward. He tips Stiles's face towards him. "You did what needed to be done to protect your own." He kisses Stiles on the lips, light and chaste. He pulls back just enough to lean their foreheads together, and Stiles can't look away. "You're not nearly as monstrous as you think." Peter smirks and dips forward, rough cheek sliding against Stiles's, to whisper in his ear, "And I would know, wouldn't I?" 

Stiles closes his eyes. What the hell is he supposed to do with this? "What do you want from me?" he asks, voice too small and vulnerable. 

Peter sighs and kisses Stiles's temples, and God, Stiles wishes he would go back to the possessive, controlling shit, because this? This is really freaking Stiles out. 

Peter's fingers dance under the underside of Stiles's cock before grasping him by the base, making Stiles's hips jerk forward. Peter kisses Stiles hard before pulling away, leaving the metallic tang of blood on Stiles's tongue. "I want you to let go." He places Stiles's hands at his sides, and Stiles curls his fingers into the sheets while Peter kisses and bites down his throat and torso. He sucks the head of Stiles's half-hard cock into his mouth, and Stiles jerks up with a broken gasp. Surging forward again, Peter sucks on Stiles's lower lip before licking into his mouth again, his fingers grazing Stiles's wrists and stroking up his arms. 

As soon as Stiles's fingers go lax around the sheets, Peter flips him over onto his stomach. "Hey, hey, what—?" Stiles tries to flip himself back over, but Peter's hand presses down on his back. 

"Relax," Peter growls, claws pricking Stiles's fragile skin, and Stiles's heart raises. Then Peter nips at the small of his back, and Stiles goes limp. "Good boy," Peter says. 

Stiles groans in half protest, half appreciation, and Peter hums in amusement as he kneads the taut muscles of Stiles's neck and shoulders. He works his way over Stiles's shoulder blades, rolling the heels of his palms over the knots he finds and digging his thumbs in to work out the tiny little kinks. Stiles relaxes into it, relishing the smooth slide of skin on skin. 

The last time someone gave Stiles a massage was when his parents were still reading him bedtime stories. Stiles would lie on his stomach beside one of them, his mother during his father's night shifts and his father when his mother had to work late, and they'd rub circles into his back as they read. His mother's method was firm and absent, her circles encompassing Stiles's entire back. His father's was softer, more cautious, more of a graze than a massage. For years, it was the only way they could get Stiles to fall asleep. Stiles misses it. 

Peter's painstakingly thorough, covering every inch of skin and running his fingers over the sides of Stiles's rib cage. His ministrations press Stiles into the sheets and make his muscles tingle and ache. Stiles's eyelids flutter shut and his breath evens out, deep and slow, the air warm in his lungs. Mind quiet, Stiles loses himself in it until Peter works out a particularly obnoxious knot just beneath his shoulder blade, making Stiles stretch and groan, smacking his lips. 

"Do you remember what you called yourself earlier?" Peter murmurs. 

Of course he remembers. Stiles grunts and shoves his face into the sheets. They smell like Peter, like musk and the breeze.... Maybe a faint hint of cologne and blood. 

The blood might be Stiles's, actually. 

Peter digs his knuckles in on each side of Stiles's spine. "My significant other," he says smugly. 

That's… not where Stiles thought Peter was taking this conversation. Stiles tenses, but Peter drags his knuckles along the arch of Stiles's spine, making him relax again with a whimper. 

Peter hushes him and sweeps his palms over Stiles's shoulders before arcing them back to the center of Stiles's back so he can keep working downward. "I know. I would have preferred you consulted me first, too, but I think this is an excellent step forward for us." He presses a kiss behind Stiles's ear, his clothed, hard cock bumping against Stiles's ass. "I like that you're mine." 

Stiles's groan of exasperation collapses in on itself when Peter grasps him by the waist and squeezes. "There is no 'us'," Stiles grumbles, muffled by the sheets. He moans in appreciation as Peter rubs circles into his hips. "And I never called you that." Before Peter can argue, Stiles turns his head to the side so he can speak clearly. "I said 'normal people don't choke their significant others.'" 

"Actually—" 

"'When they're upset', Jesus," Stiles clarifies. "Mmm, right there." Peter presses his thumbs into the small of Stiles's back. "I was generalizing. Normal people don't choke their significant others when they're upset. Which, seriously. You were like, 'I'm upset you could've died so' – _ah-h_ — 'so now I'm going to nearly kill you.' It's weird and doesn't make sense." 

Peter traces the hollows of Stiles's ass cheeks, making Stiles twitch. "But if you're not my significant other, then your logic doesn't apply. And I didn't nearly kill you," Peter tacks on, fingertips digging into Stiles's muscle. He nips the skin of Stiles's shoulder and murmurs, "I know what I'm doing." 

Oh joy. Stiles sighs in defeat and closes his eyes again under the sweet ache of Peter's hands. "Whatever. I'm still not your significant other." 

Cloth shifts behind Stiles, and Peter's voice and the warmth of his body moves south. "But you are mine," Peter says, breath hot on Stiles's ass. Languid and aching, Stiles barely twitches when Peter grabs his cheeks and spreads them apart. "My Stiles," Peter breathes, and before Stiles can argue, Peter's tongue circles his hole and steals his breath away. 

"Holy—" Stiles shudders, and Peter holds him down against the bed, fingers pressing bruises into Stiles's skin. His tongue nudges at Stiles's hole, unbearably hot and wet. Stiles gasps, heat unfurling in his abdomen. The tip of Peter's tongue presses in, sending rolling shocks through Stiles's body. Stiles moans, hands curling loosely around the sheets, and Peter fucks him open on his tongue with little jabs and twists that have Stiles whimpering and shoving his ass into Peter's firm grip, Peter's name spilling from his lips. 

Peter's hands slip around Stiles's hips and wrap around his cock, jerking him off in long, firm strokes in sync with the slowing thrust of his tongue, and Stiles twitches back and forth, overwhelmed. He comes fast with a hiccupping groan, hips jolting forward against the bed, and Peter's tongue slips out of Stiles, the sensation making Stiles's orgasm stutter. When Stiles finishes, panting and drained, Peter leans over him and bites down on his shoulder, smoothing his hands over Stiles's ass. Stiles watches him from the corner of his eye, fighting the urge to tug Peter down onto him like a blanket. 

Peter grins and presses a kiss to the corner of Stiles's mouth. Tired and content, Stiles moves his lips lazily against Peter's before Peter sucks on his lower lip and pulls away. "Don't fall asleep yet," he murmurs, jeans scraping against Stiles's bare legs. 

Stiles turns his face into the sheets and grumbles wordlessly. Why is Peter still wearing clothes? 

Peter ignores him, and Stiles hears a tell-tale zip followed by the familiar pop of a cap. Peter stretches Stiles open with one finger then two, thorough and perfunctory, finishing what he started with his tongue. Stiles moans and jerks, oversensitive, and Peter adds a third without slowing down. When he hits Stiles's prostate, he pulls his fingers out to slick up his cock, giving Stiles a moment to breathe. Just as Stiles stretches and shifts, Peter spreads his cheeks apart and pushes in, punching the air out of Stiles's lungs. 

He fucks Stiles hard and fast, and Stiles takes it, too tired and sated to do much. His hips jerk, his legs tremble, and his breath hitches, his body wanting to participate and fall asleep all at once. "Okay, okay," he mumbles when it gets to be too much. He finds Peter's hand on his hip and grabs his wrist. "Peter," he gasps, and Peter speeds up for a terrifying few seconds before burying himself in Stiles. He comes with a groan, his claws biting into Stiles's hips. Stiles decides to take it as a compliment. 

Peter collapses onto Stiles for a moment and kisses him behind the ear, making Stiles release his wrist to swat him away. "Ge'off," Stiles mutters, eyes closed. 

Peter sucks on his earlobe before murmuring, "As you wish," and pulling away, leaving Stiles cold and hanging half on, half off the bed. Peter's footsteps fade away, and Stiles lets himself drift. 

At some point, Peter wipes him down with a cool washcloth. Stiles twitches awake and grumbles, and Peter swats him on the ass in retaliation before disappearing again. 

Shivering and half-conscious, Stiles rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. It's painted a creamy ivory to offset the deep blue walls. It reminds Stiles of being under water. 

"What are you thinking?" Peter asks from the doorway. 

Sluggish, Stiles blinks and turns his head to watch as Peter walks towards him. Stiles wavers, lost, then flaps a hand at the walls. "I would have pegged you as more of a monochrome type of guy," he mumbles, looking away. 

"You're not wrong. I used to be that way," Peter admits as he climbs on the bed. Clad only in his boxers, he grabs Stiles by his biceps and tugs him along to the head of the bed. Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but Peter beats him to it. "But now monochrome reminds me of the hospital." 

The words stick in Stiles's throat. Peter says it so casually, like it's no big deal, but of course that's exactly what it is. That terrifies Stiles. 

He can spend all day explaining to Scott Peter's emotions, but the moment Peter admits to having them himself, Stiles finds himself struggling to form a response. Peter's not supposed to make this personal, not really. He's not supposed to admit any vulnerability. 

Even as his thoughts race, Stiles stays silent and lets Peter maneuver him onto his side and curl around him. "Didn't take you for a cuddler, either," Stiles mumbles, his muscles going lax with the glide of skin on skin. 

"I'm not cuddling," Peter says, looping an around Stiles's waist. He nips at Stiles's shoulder. "I'm staking my claim." 

Stiles snorts, eyelashes fluttering. "Sure," he slurs, Peter's body heat lulling him to sleep. 

He curls his hand over Peter's as his eyes slip shut. 

He thinks he might like Peter to be his, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Peter chokes Stiles (carefully because that makes a difference???) to express his anger at Stiles for risking himself by going after Aiden alone. He forces Stiles to apologize. He doesn't do it out of a fit of rage or anything, but more as a warning. Idk, it's weird. I never intended to write it. It just happened.
> 
> Also, hey, [fanart](http://viviena.tumblr.com/post/91757186928/gotta-have-some-peter-stiles-tonight-u) that helped inspire said choking scene. (There's no choking in the fanart, just Peter creeping on Stiles.)
> 
> In the original outline (the one I was using before I took a yearlong hiatus), they weren't even supposed to have sex.


	16. Focal Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> focal point: the square upon which a player focuses an attack, e.g. by repeatedly attacking that square or sacrificing a piece there
> 
> Stiles is a lying liar who lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to [Besin](http://besieged-infection.tumblr.com/) for telling me to stop talking and keep writing and bouncing ideas back and forth, etc. And hey, formatting is a thing now, thank you so much.
> 
> ALSO I'M SORRY THIS IS LATE OMG LIFE HAS ATTACKED
> 
> mild tw for domestic violence *see end notes for specifics

He comes to half-sprawled atop Peter, who's poking him in the side with a claw. The werewolf's almost done with his sentence before Stiles wakes up enough to comprehend what he's saying. "—the Pussycat Dolls," Peter finishes.

Stiles opens his eyes and lifts his head off Peter's chest to squint down at him. "What?"

Peter narrows his eyes. "Your phone, Stiles," he growls, and Stiles looks away, listening. Sure enough, in the vicinity of the bathroom: _"Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?"_

Stiles blinks. "Who…?"

"Stiles. Make it stop."

Stiles looks back down at Peter and grins. "Oh my God, you hate them, don't—" And then it hits him, who that ringtone belongs to.

He scrambles off Peter and runs for the bathroom, spotting his borrowed pants in a wad on the toilet seat. He digs through them for his phone and fumbles for the answer icon.

"Hello?" he asks, holding his breath.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Stilinski?" Jackson shouts into his ear.

Stiles yanks the phone away before bringing it back. He looks down and swallows. "I can explain—"

"Shut up. I know exactly what you did, and you're not babbling your way out of this one, you psycho. You—"

"I thought I could keep him safe!" Stiles cuts Jackson off.

"You turned him into a fucking werewolf. He nearly died!"

Stiles scowls and tugs at his hair. "I'm not the one who bit him. I—"

"No, you just dangled him in his killer ex's face and dropped him the moment you got distracted."

"That's not how it –I didn't mean for any of it to happen that way. If Danny hadn't gotten out of the car—"

Jackson's voice dips, a growl on the edge of it. "Don't even try to pin this on him. You have any idea what you've put him through? He flinches when I touch him. He wakes up screaming in the middle of the night. He wouldn't even tell me what happened until today." He breathes harshly through the phone. "He trusted you, and you fucked him over, Stilinski. So this? This is all on you, and I'm going to ruin you because of it. You understand, you little shit? You thought your father's job was in danger before?"

Stiles grabs the phone with both hands. "Jackson, please--"

"Let's see how he does when I throw all my money at him."

"He didn't know—" Stiles says, desperate and terrified, but Jackson hangs up. Stiles blinks, mind blank as he carefully sets his phone down. He leans forward on the counter, closing his eyes, and everything Jackson said crashes down on him. "Shit," he hisses. He slams the side of his fist into the wall beside him, rattling the mirror and splitting the skin of his pinkie. The knob of his wrist reverberates with the blow, sending shocks of pain up his arm, but he doesn't particularly notice. This wasn't supposed to happen.

None of this was supposed to happen.

He inhales and exhales, gathering himself together, then reaches for the outfit Peter loaned him. He hesitates. The pants, boxers, and v-neck sit innocently on the toilet, and it burns Stiles to touch them. He feels dirty for using them –tricked. But as usual, he needs them. He always fucking needs something from Peter. He shoves them on, movement tight and jerking. The floor creaks behind him as he clips the belt into place.

"I can take care of Jackson," Peter says candidly, leaning on the wall outside the doorway.

"Wonderful," Stiles mutters, tucking his phone into his front pocket. He pats himself down but can't find his keys. "One more thing for me to owe you. Thanks but no thanks." He shoves his way past Peter, and Peter allows himself to be shoved past. Stiles avoids looking at him, ignoring his furrowed brow.

Peter follows Stiles into the bedroom. "I have the money. That's not something you can say for yourself. Or your father."

Stiles growls in frustration as he sifts through the contents of Peter's desk. "I don't need your fucking money." He moves a penholder, Peter's laptop, a lamp, manila envelopes and folder, everything on the impeccably neat surface, and still no keys.

"But do you _want_ it?"

Stiles whirls on Peter. "No, I don't fucking want it, you overbearing asshole. I don't want anything from you. I can handle this myself." Peter narrows his eyes, and Stiles ignores him again, heading for the bedside table.

"Oh, well, I suppose that's that, isn't it?" Peter murmurs, voice sharp. "After all, you handled the situation with Danny so very well, didn't you?"

"Shut up!" Stiles jerks around, throwing his hand out at Peter and sending him crashing into the back wall.

Peter hits it with a bang and frowns as he rights himself, rolling his shoulders and crossing his arms. “I’m just trying to help.”

“Yeah, because you’re such a good Samaritan,” Stiles mutters and pushes past him, heading for the living room. He glances at the table in the corner –empty— then heads for the coffee table. He scoots the gleaming chess board across the table. The glass scrapes against the wood, and one of the pieces topples over, falling onto the floor and skidding under the couch. Stiles ignores it and digs through the cushions. “Do you know where my keys are?”

Peter doesn't answer, and Stiles glances in his direction. He finds Peter standing in the hallway, half-hidden in shadow.

Stiles pauses and tosses the cushion down. “Dude, a little help here?”

“I’m sorry, I thought you didn’t want my help.”

Stiles lets out a wordless growl. “Can you please act like a normal person for once?”

Peter stalks over and picks the couch up. He turns it on its side, and the cushions tumble to the floor. “Satisfied?” Stiles absolutely does not look at Peter's barely straining arms. He's already had sex with Peter. He does not care. He is immune, goddamnit.

A stream of granola trickles out of the couch. Peter glares at Stiles. “Really?”

“I didn’t do it!”

“You’re the only one who’s eaten granola bars on my couch, Stiles.”

“You….” Stiles squints at him and shakes his finger, but he’s got nothing. “Ugh.” He moves to the loveseat and starts digging through it. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Peter swipe the fallen chess piece off the ground and lower the couch back to the floor.

No keys in the loveseat, either.

Moonlight gleams off the glass piece as Peter turns it over in his hands, attracting Stiles’s attention. It’s one of the polished glass knights, its horse’s head half melted. Peter dusts it off with a finger. "This used to be my family's." He glances at Stiles and sets the knight down. "I'd appreciate it if you'd be more careful." He rounds the coffee table, drawing near.

Stiles straightens his shoulders and crosses his arms, gaze glancing off Peter's ridiculously attractive shoulders and arms. The dude really needs to put a damn shirt on. "What now?"

Peter stops in front of him, smiling. "I know where your keys are."

Stiles waits, but Peter doesn't say anything more, just keeps watching him. Stiles kind of wants to strangle him. Hell, Peter would probably be into it. "Well?"

"A kiss goodbye first?"

Stiles seethes. "Can you just tell me—"

Peter holds his hands up in submission. "No kiss then." His smile turns into a playful smirk. "Can't blame me for trying." He curls his hands around Stiles's hips.

"Hey, I said no—" Stiles yelps, hand twisting, but Peter grabs his hand before he can finish the spell. Magic churns under Stiles's skin, trapped beneath the surface.

"I'm only getting your keys," Peter says, reeling Stiles in.

Stiles bristles. "I could set you on fire right now," he hisses, and Peter stills, claws slipping out and pricking into the skin of Stiles's wrist, already bruising from hitting the wall.

Peter leans away, grip on Stiles's wrist tightening, and Stiles swallows, refusing to feel guilty for saying it. "I'm sure you could," Peter murmurs. "But, honestly, I'm only getting your keys," he says carefully.

Stiles holds his gaze, and Peter slips his hand over Stiles's hip and into the back pocket of his jeans, his palm hot even through Stiles's pants. Metal clinks together as the hard, pointy press of keys shifts against Stiles's ass, and Peter pulls them out.

He dangles them in front of Stiles's face, and Stiles snatches them away. "Are you kidding me?" Stiles grumbles. "You couldn't have, I dunno, _told_ me? With your words?"

"Where's the fun in that?" Peter asks with a –a goddamn pout, Jesus Christ. He steps back and waves for Stiles to pass. "Your chariot awaits."

Stiles gapes. "Oh my god, you're actually a dork. You’re a total creep, but you're also a dork."

Peter's smile grows. "You've finally caught on. My streak of murders was all part of an elaborate masquerade to hide my true nature from the world."

"…I knew it," Stiles deadpans. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Peter's making it so difficult to hate him. "I've gotta go," Stiles mutters.

Peter snatches his arm as he passes. "Oh, and Stiles?"

Stiles grimaces. Nothing good ever follows that voice. He tries to tug his arm out of Peter's hold, but Peter grips him tight. "What, Peter?" Stiles sighs.

"If you ever follow through on your threat, I will ruin you," Peter says, voice steely, eyes dead.

Stiles shrugs. "Haven't you done that already?"

"Not nearly." Peter's smile isn't nearly so playful this time. "I've held you together. When you turn your back on me, though, that's when I'll break you."

Stiles returns Peter's smile and leans in. "You know, a few months ago that might've scared me. But now?" Stiles turns his head until his lips brush Peter's cheek. "You're welcome to try."

Stiles grins as Peter's breath stutters, tiny bursts of air against Stiles's skin. He sucks on Peter's lower lip, dragging his teeth over it, then pulls away, running his tongue across his teeth. Peter narrows his eyes, and Stiles tips his head. "Night, Peter."

He tugs on his shoes at the door, listening as Peter follows, the weight of his eyes on Stiles's back palpable. Stiles stands up, and Peter holds the front door open for him. They watch each other as Stiles makes his exit.

"Good night, Stiles," Peter murmurs, lips turned up at the corners, eyes crinkling.

Stiles ducks his head, biting back a grin, and Peter closes the door, leaving Stiles alone in the quiet, dark hallway. He stands there for a moment, looking back at Peter's door. They have the weirdest mess of a relationship, but to Stiles… it seems simple. With a life like this, he wouldn't want it to be anyone else. Not now.

He might need to kill Peter one day, but he'll never set him on fire.

He walks away with a smile on his face and a bounce in his footsteps. And then he trips down the first flight of stairs of the apartment complex, somehow bashing his cheek against the railing. "Damnit," he groans, sprawled across the landing.

"Really, Stiles?" Peter's voice asks from somewhere above. Stiles is too dizzy to tell.  

He sits up, head rushing, then prods his pounding cheek. No blood. "Yep." He clambers to his feet and sees Peter watching him from atop the staircase. "Ugh, go away. I can feel your judgment."

Peter shrugs. "Suit yourself." He leaves, throwing over his shoulder, "And watch your step. The second stair's an inch shorter than the rest."

Stiles glares after him and whispers a spell to make air currents blow up his boxers.

 

o—o—o

 

When he rounds the corner of his street, he spots his dad's cruiser in the driveway,  Scott's bike parked behind it, and Lydia's blue Prius parked streetside. It's 9:30pm. His dad's supposed to be at work. Scott should be home doing homework and hoping his mom shows up. Lydia only ever comes over if something big has happened.

Stiles glances at his phone. He's got one missed call from Lydia and two texts from Scott asking where he is. Nothing from his dad, though. That's weird. Probably a bad sign, too.

Stiles swallows and hesitates before pulling into the driveway. He's wearing Peter's clothes, he smells like sex, and he's got blood on his shoes. He should've brought a spare change of clothes with him earlier, but exhausted as he was, thinking ahead wasn't exactly his forte.

Maybe he can scale the house and sneak through his window, he considers, but then Scott walks out the front door and stares at him. Lydia follows behind him, hardened gaze on Stiles.

Stiles's stomach sinks.

He parks the car and climbs out cautiously. Scott and Lydia wait on the porch for him, stiff. Stiles shuffles over, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his –Peter's—jeans. "Hey."

"Stiles," Lydia says tightly.

Scott just sighs, shifting on his feet and looking away. "Hey, Stiles," he mumbles.

Stiles glances between them. Scott won't meet his eyes. "…Scott?"

Scott's eyes flick up to his then skitter away. He opens and closes his mouth, before, finally, he says, "We know how you found out about Quebec."

Stiles looks down at the ground. He feels like a metal band's tightening around his chest, constricting his lungs. A soft "oh" tumbles from his lips. "I… I'm sorry."

"I know," Scott says.

"Well, I don't," Lydia snaps. "Are you sorry for anything, Stiles? Because you've pulled a lot of shit through the years, and I don't think you've ever felt a hint of remorse."

"Lydia—" Scott starts to scold, but Stiles cuts him off, bristling.

"Yeah, and how would you know?" he asks her. "You never even noticed me until Scott got turned into a werewolf."

Lydia narrows her eyes. "Oh, I noticed you, Stiles. It was pretty difficult not to when you followed me around like a deranged puppy and shoved yourself in my face every chance you got. I also noticed that every time someone pissed you off or tried pushing you and Scott around, something awful always happened to them. Funny, how many times that happened. And now it's happened to Danny. Is it because he dated Ethan? Am I next, Stiles?"

Stiles shakes his head, heart pounding. "No," he says, almost –almost hurt. "I'd never –I didn't _want to_ —" He exhales in frustration. "It was my only chance to do something."

Lydia snorts. "Oh, so Danny was just collateral damage. I see how it is."

"Nothing was supposed to happen to him!" Stiles shouts.

Lydia's gaze falls flat. "But it did. You screwed up, Stiles," she says slowly. "And then you tried to hide it." Her jaw tightens. "I thought you were supposed to be the one with common sense and a brain, but clearly I was wrong." She steps up to him. "You've grown on me, you really have," she says softly. "But Danny was my friend long before you, and if you ever hurt him again, I will strip you of your magic." Stiles straightens and squints ever so slightly, and Lydia responds by leaning in. "I'll find a way. You know I will." She purses her lips. "You understand, Stiles?"

Stiles nods, back stiff.

She smiles and says primly, "Good." She pats his cheek and stalks away, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Stiles and Scott watch her as she opens the driver's door of her car and pauses. "Oh, I forgot to mention," she adds, "Peter's clothes look great on you. You should probably let him take you shopping some time."

Stiles stares, blinking as she slams the door shut and starts the engine. She takes off, and Stiles glances at Scott, who's looking him up and down, eyes widening.

"Dude, what just— _Peter? Hale?_ " Scott says.

Stiles looks at him and sighs. He shrugs helplessly.

" _Dude_."

"Yeah."

"But he's so _old._ "

Stiles blinks, taken aback. "I was a little more concerned about the whole manipulative serial killer thing, but if that's what you wanna prioritize, okay. Yes. He's old. Honestly, I've been trying not to think about it."

"Dude."

Stiles squints at him. "Scott, I love you, buddy, but you're gonna have to be a little more articulate."

"I'm still processing."

"I can see that."

Scott shakes his head a little. "Everything makes so much more sense now," he says, staring past Stiles, and for some reason he sounds relieved. Why the hell is he relieved?

Stiles narrows his eyes. "Why? How?"

Scott meets his gaze. "Well, the whole Danny thing –and your exhaustion –it was all Peter."

"What?" Oh no. "Scott, no—"

"Your dad's coming," Scott hisses, tilting his head to the side.

"Shit. Don't tell him."

"But—"

Stiles's dad opens the front door and stares at them, gaze hard. He looks between them like he can read the guilt on their faces. "Is Lydia done yet?" he asks Scott.

Stiles's mouth falls open, and Scott swallows before he says, "She just left."

"Good." He opens the door all the way and glares at Stiles. "Get in here." Stomach twisting, Stiles ducks his head and slinks in.

"Uh, maybe I should go," Scott says behind him.

"No, you stay," the Sheriff says, and Stiles is never going to see the light of day again, is he? "It'll be harder for him to lie with the both of us here to catch him." _Oh, God_. Stiles tries to sneak up the staircase, but before his foot so much as hits the first step, his dad says, "Stiles. Living room."

Stiles spins on his heel, not looking at his father or Scott as he trudges towards the couch.

"Wait," his dad says, voice losing its infuriated edge, leaving it almost –fragile. He stops Stiles with a ginger hand on his shoulder. He peers at Stiles's face, his anger melting into protective worry. "What happened?"

"What?" Stiles asks, truly perplexed. He glances at Scott, who's following the Sheriff's gaze with furrowed brow before his eyes widen in realization and sympathy.

"Stiles," Scott murmurs, like Stiles is broken somehow.

"What!?" Stiles almost shouts, hands flying out. Seriously, what the fuck is going on?

"Your cheek is bruising," his dad explains, jaw tightening.

" _Oh_ ," Stiles says, dragging the word out as he shrugs. He laughs a little at himself. "I fell down the stairs and hit it against the railing somehow. It's nothing."

His dad narrows his eyes. "And I suppose the railing clawed your wrist as well."

"What?" Stiles looks down at his wrists, and oh, yeah, Peter totally broke the skin when he was threatening Stiles for threatening to set him on fire. Aaand it's bruised and bloody from him punching the wall. "Oh…. Well, no," Stiles says carefully. "But… I mean… the ground was… pointy?"

Great, now he sounds like a total abuse victim. Icing on the cake.

His dad lifts an eyebrow. "And the ground got blood on your shoes, too?"

Stiles glances down at his blood-spattered gym shoes. "…That's paint."

"Paint," his dad says.

"Paint," Stiles says. "It's this liquid that you put on walls—"

His dad points at the couch. "Just sit down, Stiles." Stiles shuts up and takes his place on the couch. His dad sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "You, too, Scott."

Scott sits down beside Stiles, glancing over at him like they're six-year-olds being put in time-out all over again, and Stiles's dad sits opposite them on the loveseat. "What happened today?" he asks Stiles.

 _Well, I passed out in gym class, sacrificed a kid to a tree and bludgeoned his body to ruin. Then Peter helped me hide the rest of the body, choked me, massaged me and fucked me. And then we took a nap. And Lydia and Jackson reminded me of what an awful person I am._ That'll go over well. Stiles kind of wants to shoot himself in the face.

"Stiles?" Scott asks softly.

Stiles exhales heavily, trapped. "The school nurse sent me home sick. Except instead I went to Peter's and borrowed his books for magic stuff, you know." He makes a breeze tickle Scott and his dad's hair, and they jump in surprise. Stiles waves at his wrist. "It's Peter. I threatened to set him on fire. He got upset. Yadda yadda yadda. Nothing happened. I'm fine."

"Fine?" his dad leans forward, fierce and barely containing himself. "Your face will be a giant bruise tomorrow."

Stiles holds up his hands. "Woah, woah, woah, that was not Peter. Seriously, I fell down the stairs, like, sideways or something, I don't even know, but it happened."

"Did Peter help you fall down the stairs?" his dad asks.

"No!" Stiles flails. "I'm just clumsy. You know this. You've seen me fall down the stairs before. Jesus, you've even seen me run into the wall. Multiple times."

"Stiles—" Scott starts to say, voice full of pity.

"Oh my God!" Stiles shouts. "Look, Peter's a werewolf. You really think he'd punch me in the face if he wanted to hurt me? No, he'd fucking tear my throat out." Or… choke him. But that is a completely different story, right? Right. "Besides, I slammed him up against the wall. So really, I think we're even."

"Seriously?" Scott asks, mouth agape.

Stiles wiggles his fingers at Scott and grins. "Magic."

"Stiles," his dad sighs. He opens and closes his mouth, then shakes his head. "Fine, let's say I believe this story. How do you explain the blood?"

God, Stiles should've burned the shoes, paranoid forest rangers bedamned. "Paint…. Peter's… painting his apartment. Red. Blood red. Because he's crazy like that. Ha ha, what a psycho." The pitch of his voice lilts up at the end of his sentence. He's so fucked.

"Uh huh," his dad says slowly, not buying it at all. "And why are you wearing someone else's clothes? Peter's, I'm assuming, given the v-neck."

"I got… paint on mine. There was a lot of paint."

Scott cocks his head to the side. "Dude, that paint smells like blood," he says.

Traitor. "That's from my wrist."

"It doesn't smell like your blood. And I can hear your heart beat, Stiles."

Stiles runs a hand over his face and presses himself into the corner of the couch. "Look, I don't—" _know what you want me to say_. But the problem is that he knows exactly what they want him to say, and he just can't –they can't know. They can't know what he's become, what he's done. They wouldn't understand. Or maybe they would understand, and all too well. Maybe they'd see him for exactly what he is.

He's lost Lydia. He's never associated with Isaac outside of Scott. He hasn't seen Derek since he slapped Kate's abuse in his face. Cora's an acquaintance at best, and Boyd and Erica are dead, not that Stiles was really friends with them in the first place. Heather's dead, too. And for all Peter's pretty words and declarations, Stiles doesn't trust him not to drop him the moment Stiles stops being useful.

All Stiles has is Scott and his dad.

"I can't tell you," he whispers, staring at the coffee table.

His dad shifts forward, elbows on his knees. "Let's try something easier then. Lydia told me about Danny, but I want to hear your side of the story. Can you do that?"

Stiles would prefer to saw off his own foot and eat it. "How much did she tell you?"

His dad gives him a look. "I'm not giving you more material to lie with."

Stiles swallows.

"Wednesday," his dad says. "Two days ago. You went to school, then…?"

Stiles inhales slowly, the air sitting high in his lungs. "Coach told me to skip practice. So I—"

"Why?" his dad asks.

Stiles shrugs. "I guess I just didn't look very g—"

"He's been sick," Scott says over him. 

The Sheriff's face falls.

"Just tired," Stiles quickly corrects. It comes out as a lie, and Scott narrows his eyes and opens his mouth. "Drained," Stiles spits out before Scott can say anything, and his heartbeat stays steady.

Scott's brow crinkles in confusion, but he doesn't argue.

Stiles's dad watches them carefully, taking in everything, Stiles is sure of it, but it's hard to read him because he's put on his interrogator face. "I'm sorry for not noticing, Stiles," he finally says. "I should have."

"No, it's fine. You were looking for Melissa, and I didn't wanna worry you. I get it—"

"Stiles, it's my job to notice," his dad says, leaning forward. "No matter the circumstances. I'm sorry."

Stiles swipes at his eyes even though he's not crying. It's hard to force the words past the hard knot sticking in his throat. He doesn't look at his father. "…Okay."

"So you skipped practice," says his dad. "Then what?"

"I came home, did a little bit of homework, and then Danny showed up. He'd been in hiding since Melissa went missing, but Ethan was getting closer to finding him…. He wanted my help getting all the way to the airport without Ethan tracking him down, and I…" Stiles shrugs, shaking his head. "I said yes."

He sneaks a glance at his father, wanting to get one final look at his face before everything goes to shit. His dad stays blank-faced for the most part, but Stiles can still see his worry lines deepen with concern. Stiles takes it in, then looks back at the coffee table. Scott stays still beside him, patient as ever.

"I told him I knew a spell to make him impossible to track. I didn't. I don't, not yet. I read about one, but I can't cast it yet."

"Stiles," his dad murmurs.

"Right…. I started driving Danny out to the airport, but I took a… a long way through the woods…." Stiles picks at an invisible speck of dirt on the knee of Peter's jeans. "I used him as bait," his voice shudders, "and it worked." He tries to keep speaking, but he can't find the words.

"Ethan came?" Scott asks.

"Ethan came. I saw him out the corner of my eye and stopped the car. Told Danny to stay inside and surrounded the Jeep with mountain ash. I thought he'd be safe. He _was_ , but then, I guess I – and it was too much for him, so…."

"What was too much for him?" his dad asks, his voice low, a nearly indiscernible tremor to it.

Stiles meets his dad's gaze and finds it fixated on him, eyes slightly too wide in horror, the lines of his face tense with anticipation. Stiles's eyes burn, lids tight and itchy. He blinks rapidly and sucks in a shuddering breath. Shoulders drawing together, he struggles to breathe. "I…" He swallows and inhales carefully. Scott and his dad wait.

Stiles exhales and stares past his dad's shoulder. The warm yellow light of the living room makes their transparent reflections in the back sliding door barely visible. He can see Scott watching him. Can see the back of his dad's head and shoulders, still like a sculpture. And he can see himself, hunched and backed into the corner of the couch, trapped.

He looks back at the coffee table, taking refuge in the dark, dull grain of the wood. He allows his shoulders to sink. "I've been getting stronger," he says, voice smooth with acceptance, almost robotic in nature. "I pinned Ethan to a tree and tortured him for information. I don't remember for how long, but it was long enough –or I went far enough—to make Danny panic. He got out of the car to stop me." The words come easier now and spill from his lips, unbidden. He says one thing after another, and he almost doesn't register them all. He's like a condemned man digging his own grave, and he can't wait to get it over with.

Silence hangs in the room as he speaks, a heavy weight bearing down on him between each word. "Danny went on to meet Jackson, and I got Peter to hide the body so I could make it home before you did," he finishes. He shrugs and looks up at his father. "And that's what happened on Wednesday." He holds his breath, waiting.

His dad folds his fingers together in front of his mouth and keeps his elbows on his thighs. He closes his eyes and breathes in and out, and a horrible, lingering moment later, he opens his eyes again and lowers his clasped hands, knuckles whitening as he rubs one thumb over the other. "I'm glad you're safe," he says carefully. "And thank you for telling me the truth."

Stiles's lips part, and he sucks in a breath. There's a 'but' coming after this.

"Was it all the truth, though?" Scott asks, and Stiles jerks, head snapping to look at him. Scott's tense, almost desperate. "All Peter did was hide the body? He had nothing else to do with it?" He shakes his head, uncomprehending.

Stiles clenches his teeth together. "It was all me, Scott. I only involved him because I was running out of time."

Scott sits up. "No, he must have done something. He must've –he must've gotten in your head somehow. That's what he does. You said it yourself."

Stiles swallows. "Scott, that's not…. He hasn't been a good influence, sure, but…. I've always been… capable. Of things like this. Circumstances have just…" Stiles shrugs and exhales, "pushed me into it."

"That's not true. You're better than—"

"Why can't you just accept this!?" Stiles snaps. "Allison ran around stabbing everyone in the back, and you still welcomed her back with open arms."

"Yeah, and Gerard made her do it. He got in her head just like Peter's getting into yours."

"Woah, woah woah, first off, please don't ever put Peter and Gerard on the same level because Peter may be psychotic serial killer, but at least he's not fucking genocidal." And he's never beaten Stiles to a pulp to send a message. "Second, Peter's not getting into my head any more than I'm getting into his." Scott gapes, and Stiles leans towards him. "Yeah, you heard me, Scott. I'm making sure he doesn't kill you to become an alpha again because you _know_ he would do it in a heartbeat if he could get away with it. You're welcome. Third, and please don't make me repeat this again, but Danny was all me. Ethan, too, because he did bite him, but mostly me. I really am that awful, and… Lydia's wrong. I am sorry. I am so, so sorry, but I…" Scott stares at him, brow furrowed like he still wants to argue, and something in Stiles breaks. "I'd do it again," he whispers.

"Why!?" Scott shouts. "You found out about Quebec, but that's all. That's not worth Danny's—"

"I got rid of a threat."

Scott stares at Stiles, face falling. "You killed someone, Stiles," he says softly.

"Scott," Stiles's dad says, and Stiles and Scott snap to attention, "that's enough. I appreciate you being here, but it's late. You should go home. Get some rest."

"But—" Scott says, but the Sheriff cuts him off.

"Stiles and I need to talk."

Scott slumps. "Okay." He leaves without saying goodbye. He doesn’t look at Stiles.

Stiles and his dad watch the front door slam shut, and then Stiles's dad turns to him and says, consideringly, "There are so many things to discuss. It's hard to decide where to start." Stiles waits, and after a moment his father sits back and says, "Tell me again what happened today."

Fuck. What did Stiles even say again? "I went to Peter's to borrow his books. We argued a little, like usual, and that’s how this—" he waves his mildly injured wrist around "—happened. Mostly. I also punched a wall. And then when I left I tripped down the stairs and hit my face."

"Uh huh," his dad says, considering. "Then why were you in the preserve?"

Stiles's mouth goes dry. "The –the preserve? Like the forest preserve?"

"Specifically North 40 degrees 28 minutes 26 seconds, West 121 degrees 34 minutes four seconds."

Stiles gapes. "Were you –have you been tracking me!?"

"I'm sorry, were you expecting me to trust you?" Before Stiles can respond, his dad says, "Tell me what you were doing in the woods, Stiles."

 _I helped lay a trap for Murder Twin #2 then sacrificed him to a magic tree so it would stop feeding off me. Because, surprise, I was dying._ There's no way that'll go over well. Stiles runs a hand through his hair, looking away and shaking his head a little.

"Stiles, you have blood on your shoes."

"Paint," Stiles says automatically.

His dad explodes. "It's not paint, Stiles! It's blood," he shouts. He shakes a hand in front of his face, almost clenching it into a fist, and Stiles's heart races. His dad sits back, seething. "I told you—" he exhales harshly, forcing himself to lower his voice, "—I told you that killing in self-defense or in the defense of another person doesn't make you bad, and you're not a bad person, Stiles. You're not. But this wasn't in self-defense, and while I understand that you were trying to protect Melissa, what you did.... It was first degree murder, kid. In this case, though, even that I can understand. What I don't understand is what possessed you to handle it on your own. Why didn't you come to me? And why, _why_ did you use Danny?"

Stiles falters. "I just, I didn't think—"

 "No, you didn't think." Stiles clenches his hands into fists, and his father sighs. "You have blood on your hands, Danny's more than anyone else's. Unless you did something even worse today. Lord knows I wouldn't be very shocked if you did…," he mutters, shaking his head, weary and frustrated. "I didn't teach you to use people, Stiles."

"I'm sorry," Stiles says.

"I know." His dad looks up, quirking a wry eyebrow. "But you would do it again, wouldn't you?"

Stiles doesn't answer.

His dad sighs. Again. "Until you decide to tell me the whole truth, I'm grounding you."

Stiles sits up, mouth dropping open. "Seriously? You're grounding me for killing people?"

His dad narrows his eyes. "'People'?"

"I was generalizing," Stiles hurries to explain.

His dad rolls his eyes. "When you do decide to tell me the truth, we'll revisit the terms."

"The terms? What is this, a prison sentence?"

"As close as possible—"

"Yeah, good luck with that."

"Stiles," his dad snaps. "I know these last couple years have been different, but now that I know what's really going on in Beacon Hills, I expect you to start listening again. And that starts today. From now on, you're either here or at school. There will be no more internet—"

Nope. "Did all that blood loss give you brain damage? Let me guess. The next thing you're taking away is my Jeep." His dad starts to nod, and Stiles bolts off the couch to pace. "Great, brilliant idea, Dad. Take away my ability to research and my transportation. Hey, while you're at it, why don't you sign my death warrant, too?"

Pained, his dad pinches the bridge of his nose. "You'll be safe—"

"Yeah, and how do you know that? Are you gonna do it? Follow me around school and leave a squad car sitting in the parking lot waiting to be a convenient getaway?"

"Stiles—"

"You don't keep me safe, Dad. You keep the town safe, but not me. That hasn't been your job since Mom died."

They both freeze, staring at each other.

Stiles breaks first.  "Shit, I'm sorry. I'm a liar, you know that. I didn't mean—"

His dad scrubs his hands down his face. "Just –just go to bed Stiles," he says, voice distant and tired. Stiles needs to learn how to time travel and shoot himself in the face before he says stupid shit like that. "We'll talk in the morning."

"But—" Stiles starts to argue.

"Bed, Stiles," says his dad.

Stiles gnaws on his lip, worried. "I really am—"

"Not right now," his dad snaps.

Stiles grinds his teeth together. "Fine," he spits out. He heads up the staircase, tripping on his way. He can feel his father watching him, gaze already straying towards the liquor cabinet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idek, guys, it's 3 in the morning and I've accepted my place in Hell. I'll reread this tomorrow and pray that it's pretty solid. Let me know if it's not. I have mixed feelings. (MOSTLY BECAUSE NONE OF THE CHARACTERS WANT TO FOLLOW THE GODDAMN OUTLINE, FUCK ALL Y'ALL!)
> 
> *domestic violence-ish: physically, the most violent thing is Stiles slamming Peter against the wall for a second, which is kinda par for the course, you know? Later, Peter grabs Stiles's wrist and breaks the skin with his claws, which is also par for the course. But really, the thing that makes it triggering, in my personal opinion, is probably gonna be the dialogue in which Scott and Stiles's dad suggest Peter's been beating on Stiles because, mostly, of a bruise on Stiles's face, which is from him falling down the stairs. Literally. Because he's clumsy, and being clumsy is not always a fun quirk -- usually it's quite painful, like when you ram the smushy part of your knee into the corner of your ottoman and bruise your knee black and blue for weeks. ugh.


	17. Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shot: slang for an unexpected or sharp move that typically makes a tactical threat and/or technical challenge for the opponent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sheriff's name is Jim because Tom's already taken and even though the fandom favors John, I do not.

Sometimes Jim's son reminds him of some of his newly hired vets, worn and damaged from war. They drop off to sleep wherever they are whenever they can to catch a few precious minutes, then bolt awake at the slightest sound. They're always ready to go at a moment's notice, always have an eye out for danger. They startle easily, sometimes violently, and when they do, for the briefest moment, with their eyes wide and their hands clenched into fists, Jim knows their minds are back in battle.

Stiles does all of that.

Stiles, _Jim's seventeen-year-old son_ does all of that, and Jim let it happen.

He wishes Claudia was here.

He stays up for hours after he finds out his son's a murderer and a torturer, and he wakes up late the next morning with a hangover. He downs some painkillers in his bathroom and hopes it's one of those days when Stiles sleeps past noon, but instead he finds him in the kitchen, finishing off the box of shredded wheat Jim knows was unopened yesterday. At a loss for words, Jim stares at his son, this person he'd thought he'd known so well.

He's seen Stiles nearly every day of his young life, but this morning Stiles looks taller and leaner than Jim remembers. The baby fat Jim always sees in his mind's eye doesn't exist anymore, and the smile lines aren't so apparent anymore. There's a stiffness to him Jim doesn't remember seeing before, and his movements, while still excessive, are jerkier than they used to be, more abrupt and agitated.

His words garbled by a mouthful of cereal, Stiles mutters, "Am I a zoo animal now, too?"

Jim sighs and steps out of the doorway. "I'm just… glad you're here," he says. Silence follows as he heads for the fridge, stalling as he passes his son. Stiles doesn't look up, and Jim doesn't expect him to. Their family has never been much of one for confrontation, even when Claudia was around.

He pulls a glass out of the cupboard and pours himself some orange juice. A glass is all he can usually stomach until his hangovers wear off, but today, with a son he doesn't recognize and a confusing cloud of guilt and disappointment looming over his head, Jim decides he can handle a little more. Before he can talk himself out of it, he says, "You can keep your phone and your Jeep, but I only want you using them in emergencies." He pulls out a small saucepan and sets it on the burner. "I'll keep track of your mileage to make sure. And I'm turning off the internet."

"Dad—!"

"If you need it for school or… research," says Jim as he pulls a slab of bacon out of the meat drawer in the fridge, "you let me know, and I'll consider turning it back on. If I do, I get to check what you're doing at any time I choose." He pulls out three floppy slices and lines them up in the pan. "Each time I find you've broken any of these rules, or worked your way around them, I treat myself to prime ribs and chili cheese fries." He turns on the burner while Stiles stares in disbelief.

"Oh, come on, that's just stupid—"

Jim stares at the bacon, still cold in the pan. "The third time it happens, we move out of Beacon Hills."

The only sound he hears is his son's sharp intake of breath, and Jim finally turns to look at him.

Stiles stares back, his usually expressive face blank. His eyes flick down to the table, and he swallows. "Dad," he says, voice rough. He clears his throat, and Jim decides to stop him before he makes this more painful than it has to be.

"I've made my decision, Stiles," Jim says, and no matter what Stiles says, no matter how much he mopes and shouts and accuses, as far as Jim's concerned, that's the end of it.

He doesn't see Stiles for the rest of the day.

He attends church that Sunday and makes nice with the congregation. It's been a while since he's been, and it's about time he made an appearance. It's odd, speaking with all these people, so many of them his very own friends and neighbors, and all of them, he suspects, completely ignorant of the towns' secret goings on. They must suspect something. Then again, Jim didn't.

When Pattie from up the street steals him away from chit chat with the head librarian and asks him how Stiles is, Jim tells her he's grounded his son for overdosing on energy drinks. Pattie hates energy drinks with a passion, and Jim knows that by the time church lets out, the entire congregation will be well aware of Stiles's unfortunate predicament. Even if Stiles manages to disable both GPS devices and falsify the mileage to cheat the new rules, chances are, Jim will find out anyway.

When he gets home, Stiles is still keeping himself locked in his room. Jim knows this to be a bonafide fact because he made Stiles himself open the door so Jim could see his face and make sure he wasn't talking to a really good voice recording or whatever scheme Stiles might manage to concoct next. Stiles seems less than pleased by this intrusion.

Truth be told, Jim isn't sure what to think about his son's recent development. Stiles has always taken on too much responsibility, and Jim knows he's largely to blame. Seeing his son now giving up everything – his childhood, his own happiness, his goddamn soul—to save his friends and himself – it makes Jim feel like he's being stabbed in the chest all over again. At the same time, it pisses Jim off to see Stiles go so far. He never taught his son to use and torture people. He took him to church, instilled in him the value of the law, kept him away from R-rated movies as long as possible, reprimanded him for stealing those Smarties from that video store when he was a five-year-old. Jim's done everything he was supposed to, but how can he possibly compete with the death of his wife and homicidal werewolves, witches, lizards, and God knows what else? How can he expect his son to stay a child, to be a normal teenager, when the world's determined to ruin him?

At least Stiles is still alive. It's a miracle he's managed to survive so long, and that scares Jim more than anything else. There must have been so many times Stiles nearly died that Jim doesn't know about. He can't even take Stiles away from it all, his threat to move bedamned, because in the end he knows his son (and Stiles is nothing if not his son) will go charging right back into danger.

So he loads his gun with a magazine full of wolfsbane bullets and takes all his frustration to the one person whose name he keeps hearing but barely ever sees. The one who started it all: that damn Peter Hale.

Like the good Sheriff he is, he knocks on Peter's front door first, and like the good father he is, he picks the lock when no one answers.

As soon as he enters the apartment, his throat tightens and he can’t breathe.

He steps backwards into the hallway, and he _can_ breathe again.

He cautiously steps back over the threshold – and he can’t breathe again.

He steps back into the hallway, sucking in a grateful breath, and considers. This is not how the world is supposed to work.

"You Stilinskis are so impatient." Peter Hale, Beacon Hills' very own uncharged, roaming serial killer, wanders into view, wearing nothing more than a pair of plaid boxers and a flour-spattered black apron.

Jim crosses his arms and waits. Peter's the type to talk when he thinks he has all the power. Jim can let this part play out with minimal effort.

"It's magic," Peter says, wiping off his hands with a towel and nodding at the doorway. He tosses the towel onto the two-person bar walling off half the kitchen on his way to the front door. Through the window of space provided by the bar into the kitchen, Jim can see the tops of bags of sugar and flour sitting on the counter beside the sink faucet and opposite them a blurry reflection of a mixing bowl in the steel door of the fridge. "Courtesy of your very own son," Peter says with a small smirk.

"Of course it is." Who else would give him such a heart attack? Jim sighs, flexing his fingers. There’s an aura of sleeze around Peter that makes Jim want to break his nose.

Peter leans against the wall just inside the doorway. “I’m surprised he didn’t add you into the wards. Then again, I suppose he planned to keep you away from here at all costs, given how well he supervises you.”

Jim stares back at Peter, unimpressed by his baiting. “You’ve hurt his loved ones before. Of course he wants to keep me away from you.”

Peter lifts an eyebrow, eyeing Jim carefully. “You’re very confident, showing up here. I wonder what Stiles would do if you…” he picks at his fingernails, “disappeared.”

Jim _really_ wants to break his nose. “He’d kill you,” he says with a terrible certainty. Chris Argent might, too, since Jim's told him where he is, but Peter doesn't need to know that.

Peter nods thoughtfully, grin growing, and Jim’s trigger finger itches.

Jim sighs. “That’s why I’m here. I want to talk to you.”

“Ah,” Peter hums. He steps to the side and gestures grandly. “Then by all means, please, make yourself at home. Anything to save Stiles’s precious morals.”

Marking his way to the bar, Jim huffs and steps cautiously inside, swinging wide around the living room to keep an eye on Peter. “‘Stiles’s precious morals,’” he mimics. “You’re lying through your teeth.”

Peter shrugs. “Morals will get him killed -will get all of you killed. Had all of you gotten over yourselves sooner, maybe dear Melissa wouldn’t be missing.” He walks towards Jim, making Jim stiffen and reach for his gun, but all the werewolf does is swipe the towel off it and make his way back into the kitchen. “I’d expect a man like yourself to know that.”

Jim’s jaw tightens. “Be that as it may, Stiles shouldn’t be the one crossing those lines. It should be-”

“Who? You?” Peter scoffs, grabbing a bowl of some sort of red puree out of the fridge. Jim eyes the kitchen counter on the other side of the bar and spots cream cheese and butter next to the mixing bowl. “You don’t have the mind for it. If you did, you would have killed me by now, threat that I am.”

Jim’s hand slips to his gun. “Can’t say I haven’t thought about it,” he growls.

Peter looks up, eyes sharp. “Your ‘thought’ doesn't mean a thing. It’s your action that matters, and so far I’m unimpressed.”

Jim fingers his gun. “I’m not here to impress you.”

“Clearly,” Peter murmurs, but Jim talks over him.

“I came here to offer you a friendly warning,” he says, moving his hand away from his holster. He shouldn’t lose his temper like that. “You stay away from Stiles, or I'll put a bullet through your brain stem.”

Peter narrows his eyes at him. “Why?”

Jim lifts his chin. “I know you’ve been encouraging him. Everything keeps leading back to you, and I won't let you ruin my son. He's not a weapon."

Peter watches Jim with a predator's cold, analytical gaze, and Jim barely refrains from standing taller under the unnerving weight of it. "I understand where you're coming from," Peter says carefully, eyes flicking down to the ingredients on the counter. He meticulously measures out a cup of sugar and taps it off into the bowl. "And I know how it feels to want to protect someone who refuses to be protected." Jim raises a skeptical eyebrow. "I do," Peter insists. "I was a son, a brother, and an uncle long before I was what I am today. And because of that I also know what it's like to be in Stiles's position." He smiles to himself. "I had a big sister always ready to whisk me away from danger at a moment's notice." He glances up even as he spoons the cream cheese into the bowl. "And look at me now."

"I don't care about your sob story." Jim stares at him hard. "You're not doing this for his own good. You're doing it for yours."

"And what would your prefer I do? Sit back? Watch all of you die and let Stiles lose what little control he has left?"

"You _are_ sitting back, Hale, and Stiles _is_ losing control. If you care so much, as you seem to be implying, then why don't you save us all the trouble and take care of the alphas yourself?"

Peter sets the spoon down and plants his fists on the countertop. He lets his eyes flash. "Do you know why my eyes are blue?" Jim nods. "If I was confident I could kill the alphas myself, I would. But as of now, I can't. I don't have that power yet. Stiles is the one who does. Now do you understand?"

Jim grinds his teeth together and turns around. Opposite him, making up half the wall, are two tall bookcases nearly full. With a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure Peter's not doing anything unsavory (he's pulling something out of the oven), Jim walks over to the bookcase and scans it. One of the bookcases contains normal books –murder mysteries, an old collection of encyclopedias, art books, a lot of history books. The other bookcase…

"Are these the books Stiles comes over for?"

Peter hums in some sort of confirmation. "Why? Are you trying to figure out how to get your hands on your own copies?"

Jim glances back at Peter. "If I was, I don't think you'd be much help."

Peter shrugs and turns on a quiet, handheld mixer. "Don't bother," he says over the electric whir. "You won't be able to find any others."

Jim's brow furrows. "How do you even have these? Shouldn't they have…?"

Peter glances up. "Burned? Please. I had an apartment on the side."

Rich people.

"And it's not as if I could keep these around my family," Peter says casually. "Talia would have killed me." Jim remembers Talia, barely. She was a good natured woman, stern, marching in every other week to drag out one family member or another out of overnight holding. "Most of these are stolen, after all."

Jim suppresses a sigh. "You're a thief, too?"

"We all have our hobbies."

Somehow Jim isn't surprised. He sighs and walks back to the bar, curious to see what the _criminal_ could possibly be making.

Jim squints. "Is that icing?" he asks over the sound of the beaters.

Peter nods.

"With that much puree?" Jim asks doubtfully.

Peter stops and glares. "Is there a problem?"

"Well, it's a little much, don't you think?"

"I think I know how to make my niece's favorite icing, thanks."

"Oh," Jim says, feeling more than a little contrite. "It's for—" Shoot, what is that girl's name again?

"Derek?" Peter asks, cocking his head to the side and furrowing his brow.

Jim blinks. "Derek's your… niece?" That's unexpected.

Peter waves his hand absently, looking at the front door. "No, no, Cora is. Derek's—"

The front door jerks off its hinges and hits the floor with a bang, and Jim nearly has another heart attack.  "Peter—" Derek shouts, striding into the room, but then he spots Peter and Jim and freezes, guilty eyes flicking down to the door beneath his feet and back up.

Why is this Jim's life?

Stiles pops his head in behind Derek, baseball bat hefted over his shoulder, and his eyes go wide when he spots Peter and Jim. (Why?) Stiles turns to Derek and whisper-hisses, "Dude, didn't you hear them?"

Derek scowls. "I couldn't hear a thing."

"That would be because of your wards, Stiles," Peter says, voice calm as can be like it's perfectly normal for his nephew to come bursting in like a fangy knight in shining leather armor.

"Oh, right," Stiles says. He faces Jim and winces. "What are you doing here?" He shuffles in nervously, eyes darting between Jim and Peter. Derek and Cora wander in behind him, unwolfing or whatever it is they do to become regular humans. (Somewhere Claudia's laughing her ass off at him.)

Jim glares at Stiles. "It doesn't matter why I'm here. You're supposed to be home. Grounded."

Derek side-eyes Stiles.

"You said the exception was emergencies, and this was an emergency." Stiles waves his arms vaguely at the apartment surrounding them, as if that's supposed to mean something to Jim. "The wards went off." He points accusingly at Peter. "And he didn't text me back."

Jim glances at Peter just in time to see him cross his arms. "All you did was ask me where I was. Try calling next time and being more specific."

"Well, _you_ should've told me when and why your wards went off," Stiles snaps at him. "I thought you were being attacked!" He flails.

It's interesting that Peter Hale's safety warrants a flail. Jim doesn't like it.

Peter jerks his thumb at Jim. "Your father set them off." At Stiles's confused squint, Peter explains, "He broke in."

"Dad!" Stiles says, scandalized, as if he's the only one allowed to commit a crime. This kid.

Jim pinches the bridge of his nose. "Stiles—"

Cora sniffs the air. "Oh my god, is that strawberry cake?"

"No, sorry," Peter says, sounding legitimately apologetic as he tries to slip the fresh-baked cake back into the oven without her seeing.

Jim, Stiles, and a stricken Derek watch as a small, slow smile spreads across Cora's face. (A Hale, smiling. Amazing.) "You remembered," she says.

Peter closes the oven, casual as can be, and looks back up at her. "Remembered what?"

Cora smirks and leans over the bar. "My birthday," she says smugly. She sticks a finger in the bowl of icing just before Peter swipes it away.

"Heathen," he hisses.

What the hell is Jim even witnessing?

Cora snorts and sticks her finger in her mouth, then promptly makes a face. "Oh my god, wow, this is – good, Peter," she says, voice strained and face pinched.

Ha. "He used too much strawberry puree, didn't he?" Jim asks.

Cora nods, making Jim hide a triumphant grin, and Peter glares. "I wasn't done making it. That's why the consistency isn't right yet. It's a process. Which you interrupted. Thank you, Derek."

Derek sighs.

"Stiles was right," Cora says, poking around the kitchen. (When did she even get there? Werewolves.) "You do blame Derek for everything." She reaches for the oven handle, only to have her hand smacked away by Peter. "What? There something you don't want me to see?"

Peter points towards the front door. "Get out. All of you." He jerks his head at Derek. "Except for you. You fix the door."

Derek does something with his eyebrows, and Jim decides he's had enough. "You have a nice birthday, Cora," he says, then grabs his wayward son and makes for the exit.

Stiles stays quiet until they reach the car. "I swear I was following the rules. I totally thought it was an emergency."

Jim rolls his eyes and waves at the passenger door. "Get in." God, his son is insane.

Stiles shuffles in, sticking his baseball bat in the footwell between his legs.

"You were going to save the day with a baseball bat? Really?" Jim asks, starting the car.

"Hey, it's not just any baseball bat. It's custom-made mountain ash."

A magical baseball bat. God, this –this _world_ that Stiles is involved in. "Does it work?" Jim asks skeptically as he drives out of the parking lot.

Stiles looks away and shrugs. "Yeah, it does," he murmurs.

His voice is too quiet, and Jim is sick and tired of his son _hiding things_. So he presses. "You've used it?"

Stiles shrugs again, still not looking. "A little."

"When?"

Stiles doesn't answer at first, and Jim's just about to ask again when Stiles finally says, "Ethan."

 _Oh_ , Jim thinks, hands tightening around the wheel.

He expects the rest of the car ride to remain silent, but he gets a call five minutes later. "Sheriff Stilinski," he says.

"Melissa McCall's been spotted," one of the FBI's agents says, and Jim takes care to remain especially still and keep his eyes on the road. "Facial recognition software identified her on an incoming flight from Canada. We'll need your cooperation."

It's frustrating, not being in charge of this, but it is how it is. "Of course," he says, not looking at Stiles. He can tell Stiles later, after the operation. He tells him now, and Stiles will go running off to save the day, and they can't afford it, especially with the FBI involved.

Stiles glances at him, brow furrowing, and Jim waves it off like it's nothing. "I can be there at the station in twenty minutes," he says. He'll drop Stiles off on the way.

 

o—o—o

 

Stiles doesn't want to talk to his dad, but when he comes stomping in late that night from that totally-not-an-emergency call (ha), Stiles has no choice but to come down and ask, "Was it the alphas?"

His dad pours himself a glass of whiskey, a clear sign that things aren't going well, and rubs his temples. "Just a false alarm," he sighs.

"You were gone a long time," Stiles says.

His dad glances at him, gauging, and takes a seat at the dining room table. Stiles follows him in. "Facial recognition identified someone who we thought to be Melissa on a flight-" Stiles's heart skips a beat, "-but when we got there, it was just someone who looked very similar."

"Still," Stiles says suspiciously, ignoring the sinking of his heart, "a long time." He feels a little bad for being suspicious, but he needs to know everything, grounded or not.

After taking a long sip, the Sheriff says, "There were two passengers on that plane who shouldn't have been there. They didn't have tickets, there was no record of them, facial recognition didn't get anything off them.... By all rights they shouldn't have been on the plane at all."

"Did you catch them?"

"They were gone by the time we stopped looking for Melissa and realized something else was wrong. We'd even detained the passengers at the gate, but somehow these two slipped away. For all we know they're completely unrelated to Melissa or the alphas, but..."

"It's weird," Stiles finishes.

His dad nods. "It's weird."

Stiles doesn't sit down. He's still too upset to make any sort of gesture that could be seen as acceptance. But he wants to. "What did they look like?"

"A man and a woman, both Korean. The woman was in her late twenties, early thirties, short, spiky brown hair and business casual skirt and blouse. Wore a lot of makeup according to one of the other passengers, around five-two without heels on, a stout build. The man was a little taller, probably five-six, a thin build. Crew cut hair, same brown color as the woman's but a little messier. Skinny jeans and an AC/DC shirt. Probably in his early twenties. They seemed to have some sort of comradery on camera –pushed each other around a lot without being too serious about it."

Stiles tries to burn the vague images into his brain. "Pictures?"

His dad shakes his head and gives Stiles a look. "I left them at work."

"Dad—"

"The FBI did me the courtesy of keeping me informed and involved, but it's not my case, Stiles." He looks into his drink. "It's late, and you've got school tomorrow."

Stiles grinds his teeth together, but it seems that's all he's gonna get tonight. "Fine."

 

o—o—o

 

That Monday, Stiles drags his feet to his first class, and when he walks in Scott's already sitting in his desk, eyes skittering away and jaw tightening like the sight of Stiles physically pains him.

Lydia doesn't acknowledge him at all, eyes glancing off his body like he's invisible.

Isaac raises his eyebrows at him but otherwise ignores him, not that Stiles really cares. They were never friends, after all.

It's Allison who offers him a tiny, pale smile. It doesn't reach her eyes, but it's something.

Stiles sits in his usual spot at the lunch table, and the group spends the rest of the meal in silence, eyes darting around and making awkward eye contact with anyone but Stiles. Occasionally, Allison or Isaac tries to make some small talk, but it doesn't take.

It's amazing how awful it is to be shunned by his whole friend group. Stiles almost wishes it was just him and Scott again, because then at least he'd only have to bear the brunt of one person's judgment. He contemplates leaving early and skipping lunch entirely, but he's so starving that he can't bear the thought of leaving in his locker all his delicious, home-packed food from the secret stash of junk his dad doesn't know about.

Food is so good. Seriously. Maybe he should have sacrificed someone sooner, because while the shunning may suck, having an appetite again is awesome.

God bless food.

(Stiles wishes he'd stayed home.)

 

o—o—o

 

The next day, Stiles moves tables and eats alone.

 

o—o—o

 

He expects to eat lunch alone on Wednesday as well, but instead it gets worse in a whole new way. It's _intervention time._

Allison's not so bad. She joins him at the beginning of the period, much to Scott's almost amusing doubletake of confused betrayal.

"Hey," she says.

Stiles looks up at her, eyes narrowing. "Hey," he says suspiciously.

They're off to a great start.

"Look, I, I just wanted to say," she says, hesitating. "I know what it's like. To feel like you're doing wrong things for the right reasons." Oh, God. "And, I just, if you wanna talk about it, I'm here."

"No, you're not," Stiles says. He points at the table where Scott, Isaac, and Lydia sit. "You're over there."

She opens her mouth to argue again.

"And that's okay," he adds. He likes Allison. She _tries_ so hard to do what's right. It's a real struggle for her, something Scott will never understand, and Stiles respects that. But in the end she can't—

"You're can't be a martyr, Stiles," she says, gaze hard. "I know what it's like to give yourself up for a cause, and it's not worth it."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "I'm not 'giving myself up'. I'm just trying to keep everyone alive."

Allison looks down at the table. "We wanna keep you alive, too, and you're," she waves her hand at him, "you're making it really difficult for us."

"Then what do you want me to do? Nothing? Sit back and _let_ the Alphas have their run of the place?"

"No," she sighs. She glances over at Scott's table, where they both know he's listening. He's not looking, though, so he doesn't see when Allison grabs Stiles's napkin and scribbles something down. "What I'm saying is, and this is just me, but, next time you plan to do something.…" She leans forward, eyes flicking to Scott and back. "Let's talk about it first." She slides the napkin back across the table. It reads, _I want to help_.

Stiles's breath catches. He looks up at her, and it's like seeing her for the first time. She's always been so intrinsically connected with Scott in his head, and in a way she still is, but now…. "I'll think about it," he says. And he will. He swallows, feeling weirdly raw and vulnerable. He can't _not_ think about it now.

 

o—o—o

 

Isaac approaches him next. It's lunch again, and if this keeps up he'll feel like an interviewer with his own private table for Scott's group to cycle in and away from.

Isaac doesn't talk at first when he sits down. He takes a moment to get his bearings, shifting in his seat and looking anywhere but Stiles, until he finally makes eye contact and blurts out, "Okay, this is gonna suck so let's get it over with fast."

Stiles pauses with his spoonful of pudding midair. "Okay," he says slowly, setting his spoon back down. This seems terrifyingly serious.

Isaac holds his breath, shoulders tensing, and it make Stiles want to shake him by the shoulders and yell at him to cut it out. "DidPeterdothat?" Isaac spits out all in a rush.

Isaac's eyes flick from Stiles's face to his wrist and back. It takes Stiles a second to process, and then he sags, sighing. His wrist's scabbed over and the bruise on his face is a pleasant, puke-colored-green. Jesus fucking Christ. He raises his wrist and recites, "I punched a wall, but yes, the scratches are from Peter." He jabs his thumb at his cheek. "And this is from falling down the stairs."

"I used to fall down the stairs a lot," Isaac says with a callous shrug and a quick raise of his eyebrows.

Stiles sighs. Wow. "No, I mean, it's legitimately from falling down the stairs. The second one's an inch shorter than the rest, and it caught me by surprise."

"Uh huh," Isaac says, clearly not believing him. "Look, stairs or not, Peter still clawed your wrist, and that's not okay. He can't go around—"

"Haven't I seen Scott throw you around before?" Stiles snaps.

"Uh…"

For a second, Stiles thinks he has Isaac stumped, but then—

"That's different," Isaac says. "I heal fast. And he didn't draw blood."

"Internal injuries," Stiles says.

"And like I said, _I heal fast_. Anyway, this is about you. I'm giving you the spiel."

Maybe Stiles is the one who should be having a talk with Scott about his treatment of Isaac, but – "Fine," he says. "Carry on, your highness."

Isaac gives him a look. "You shouldn't let Peter hurt you."

"Woah, excuse me, I don't _let_ him hurt me. That's all on him."

"Yeah, well, I mean, you should –not… be around him."

"I don't think this is a very good spiel," Stiles says.

"Look, I'm still learning these things, okay?"

"Okay, okay, keep going." Whatever makes the guy feel better.

"You don't deserve to be hurt," Isaac says. It looks like it physically pains him. "You deserve to have relationships with people who respect you. You are worthy—"

"You're repeating everything your therapist tells you, aren't you?"

Isaac's shoulders sag. "Yeah. Can I stop? This isn't really my thing."

A smile tugs at Stiles's lips. "Yeah, you can stop. I get the idea. And for the record, your therapist is right. You do deserve to be treated nicely, Isaac." He smirks. "Even if you are an excessively violent little ragemonster."

Isaac smiles back, and it's actually really adorable. "You have no room to talk." It seems like he could care less about the whole torture thing. "But seriously, you and Peter—"

Stiles huffs. "Okay, let me clear some things up for you. There is no 'me and Peter' to worry about. Seriously. I use him for research and—" Stiles frowns, searching for the right words, "and… backup, occasionally, I guess. The kind of backup I can't get from anyone else. And he uses me for power, which apparently I have in spades, and I dunno, also for personal entertainment? And we both use each other for sex, not that we've done a lot of that." Stiles doesn't even feel the urge to blush. "We're not dating; we're not friends…. We... have a mutually beneficial… partnership. It's not like we actually care about each other."

Isaac still looks doubtful.

"Seriously," Stiles says in a last attempt to convince him. "Peter could go fuck off and die, and I wouldn't shed a tear. Now do you get it?"

"I guess," Isaac says slowly. "If you're sure."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Of course I'm sure." Sure, the guy's grown on him, but, really, Stiles tells himself, "It's just Peter."

 

o—o—o

 

Peter's bored. Recovering his old contacts after being out of the business for so long has been a chore, and they're hesitant to offer him any _real_ jobs, unsure of where he stands nowadays. If he could get in touch with Niav, he'd be able to prove himself easily, but the jackass of a bitch went off-grid sometime during his coma. Once this alpha pack debacle's over, he might do some investigating to see if she's still alive.

There's a Gentileschi in Illinois he could go after, but it's only worth a million, plus, as it is, he doesn't dare leave town until the alpha pack drama plays itself out. If he leaves now, everything's bound to fall apart, and Derek and Cora, brash idiots that they are, will get themselves killed. Stiles, too, probably, and wouldn't that be a shame.

Still, Peter needs to do something. It's not in his nature to sit around all day playing with stocks.

He's just about to go for a run when he hears it: the quiet scrape of claws against the grain of the stairs.

That second stair was half the reason he chose this apartment, and it's quickly proving to be one of the best decisions he's ever made.

He sniffs the air, but he can't smell anything. That bodes ill. It's time to make a strategic retreat.

He grabs his phone and laptop, and with a longing glance at the books, he strides to his bedroom, keeping quiet on his feet. Unfortunately, the window squeaks when he opens it.

The front door crashes open and snaps off its brand new hinges, hitting the floor with a bang. It hasn't even been a week since Derek broke it. Peter glances outside, reaching for the fire escape, when he sees Deucalion standing in the parking lot, watching him with an amused smirk. He's leaning against a black SUV with tinted windows, but if Peter isn't mistaken, that's Melissa McCall sitting in the passenger seat behind him. Hostage, then, for Scott.

Peter backs up into his room, expecting to be better off taking down the intruder inhibited by Stiles's defenses than Deucalion.

That's not what happens.

Kali darts into his room and charges towards him. He dodges to the side and barely misses the backswing of her leg, jabbing at her kidney as he goes. Not taking the time to see her reaction, he races for the hallway. Stiles's runes aren't working on her like they should, and inexperienced as he is, the kid's strong, and Peter's seen them work once already. Kali's protecting herself somehow.

He barely makes it to the kitchen before Kali slams him face first against the wall, breaking his nose with a slick crunch. Riding on the pain, Peter elbows her in the gut and ducks out of her grasp, aiming a punch at her throat. She's wearing a thick, corded necklace that disappears into her shirt, a fat opal of a pendant peeking out from between her breasts.  

She catches his fist before it hits and squeezes, the bones of Peter's fingers creaking for a perilous second before he knees her in the crotch. It works just as well as it does on a man and she doubles over, giving him enough time to dance around her and jab her in the kidneys again.

He tries to run away again, but she latches onto his arm and drags him down just as he reaches the living room, elbowing him in the spine and knocking the air out of him. She knees him in the face, re-breaking his half-healed nose, and he uses the momentum to fly back up to a standstill and block her next kick.

She's between him and the door now, and he's not going to make it at this rate. He's not as strong as her, and he's not healing fast enough. He needs to get the wards to work, and he knows just how to do it. That necklace isn't really Kali's style, after all. She punches and he blocks; she punches, he blocks.

He sees his opportunity when she tries to sweep his legs from under him. He jumps and aims a jab at her side, and when she goes to block, he uses his other hand to snatch her necklace away. The cord snaps, and she freezes, grabbing at her throat and choking on empty air.

The opal pendant clutched in his hand, Peter dashes past her and out his front door for the stairs. He leaps down the first two staircases and finds the workman's entrance on the first floor. It's locked, but he breaks it in a heartbeat, much to the horror of the perpetually half-asleep doorman, and sprints for the exit.

As his foot touches down on the blacktop of the parking lot, Deucalion catches him by the throat.

 


	18. Undermining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> undermining: (also known as removal of the guard) tactic in which a defensive piece is captured, leaving one of the opponent's pieces undefended or underdefended

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I still exist! This is super late, and I really do apologize for that. Life attacked. And seriously, thank you all so much for all the comments. They really keep me going. I'm gonna finish this damn thing no matter what because of you guys. You're great.
> 
> *See endnotes for content warnings*

Resting his chin on his palm, Stiles stares down at the instructions for his physics homework, the text's straight lines and perfect curves of black ink cutting through the white, empty space of the page. He sneaks a glance at his father and finds him sitting in the living room on the couch, eyes buried in reports and ankles crossed atop the coffee table.

Stiles focuses back on the instructions on the dining table and twists his hand. The paper floats slowly, _slowly_ upward. It's more difficult to move than a rock. It's not heavy enough, not centered, and it keeps tipping, wobbling, teased away by the slight currents of the air until Stiles tightens his will around it. When it's eye-level he holds it in place, giving it a second to settle.

After taking a deep breath, he whispers on the exhale, " _Agni_ ," and the paper ignites, flames blackening and eating away at the corners. It's the first time he's used two spells at once, and he watches closely, unflinching as the scorched, thin paper curls in on itself, edges glowing hot orange. Fragile slips of it flutter away and crumble midair, and there's something off about the look of the flames. The center blue burns normal, flickering like it might disappear any moment, but the flames encasing it appear lighter than the usual bright orange and yellow, instead almost white, whiter the longer Stiles stares.

"Stiles!" His dad rushes over, jolting him out of his torpor. The flames wither and the whiteness fades to orange, and the crumbled, blackened remains of the paper sink down. "Hey, watch the table," his dad warns, and Stiles holds the ashes in place an inch above the surface, waiting for the embers to die. "Are you trying to burn the house down?" his dad asks, standing over him with his arms crossed.

Stiles sighs, the lethargy in his bones holding him back from reacting more. "No," he grunts. He searches for an explanation to appease his father. "I'm just—" he flaps a hand about "—bored."

His dad pinches the bridge of his nose. "You turn into a pyromaniac when you're bored now?" he asks like he thinks his son's bound to turn into every sort of criminal mastermind the moment he turns his back.

It's enough to make Stiles shoot his dad a glare. "I was practicing. I wanted to see if I could cast two spells at once."

His dad raises his eyebrows. "And if something went wrong? I don't want us to die in a housefire, Stiles."

Stiles winces. "Sorry," he mumbles. "There's nothing to do, you know?" He bites the inside of his cheek. "Can I have the internet back?"

"No."

"But—" His bones _twinge_ , and a newly familiar pulse starts from his hands and works its way to his brain, carrying with it the imprint of Peter's apartment. "'My spider senses are tingling'," he says, pulling out his phone.

His dad sighs. "Well, at least you're not bored," he says right as his special off-duty pager beeps. The crease in his forehead grows as he glances down at it and takes the message. Stiles holds off checking on Peter – he's already embarrassed himself once by overreacting to the wards – and waits to see how his dad responds. His pager doesn't go off very often when he's off-duty, or at least it didn't before Beacon Hills grew a supernatural welcome sign in the form of a reawakened tree. Someone probably found a dead body again….

"Everything okay?" Stiles asks, unable to wait. He tries glancing at the small screen, but all he sees is blank space beneath his own text before his dad pulls it away.

"Bank robbery," says his dad, already striding towards his bedroom.

Stiles calls Peter. The phone rings and rings and rings, then goes to voicemail. "Answer your phone, you dick," he says into itbefore hanging up and calling again.

His dad returns, gun now at his hip. He slings on his jacket.

The phone goes to voicemail again, and Stiles says into it, "Your wards went off, and I'm calling just like you told me to." He grimaces, feeling a little awkward as he considers what to say next. It's not like he has reason to worry, right? Peter's probably ignoring him like the asshole he is. Although he does have a pretty good track record of answering his phone… "Call me back so I know you're not dead. Again."

Lacing up his boots, his dad glances at Stiles, all judgment, and shakes his head. Stiles can only shrug.

He hangs up and sends Peter a text: "wards went off. why?"

Ready to go, his dad jabs his finger at Stiles. "If there is trouble with Peter, you stay here. Send someone else."

Stiles salutes. "Sir, yes, sir."

Right as he's calling Derek, his dad adds, "And no more fire."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Got it."

His dad walks out the door, and Stiles gets Derek's voicemail. He frowns, pushing worry away, and calls Cora while his dad's sirens wail in the driveway. Stiles used to hate the noise of them when he was a kid –they were always so _loud_ , but after a while he got used to them. They sound different from an ambulance's, so he's almost grown fond of them. Almost.

He slips on his shoes. _Just in case_ , he thinks. Cora's phone, too, goes straight to voicemail. This might not be a good sign, but they are Hales. They're not always the easiest to get in touch with. (Sort of. Like Peter, Derek's pretty reliable when it comes to answering his phone, too, probably because Stiles only ever calls in an emergency or when he need info regarding an emergency.)

He'll have to check on Peter himself. Maybe he can get Scott to go with him.

His dad's sirens disappearing down the street, Stiles calls Scott and heads for his Jeep.

Thank the gods, for once Scott answers his phone. "Hey, Stiles, what's up?"

"I—"

Tires screech.

 _THUD_.

It's a dull and distant noise, followed by—

—a metallic crunch.  

The sirens of his dad's cruiser creep up an eerie half-step, the pulse of them speeding up and remaining in place.

Stiles wrenches his face in the sound's direction, and he stops breathing.

"Stiles?" Scott asks. "Are you okay? Stiles?"

Stiles can't answer, can't breathe. His dad's cruiser lies upside down in the middle of the road three blocks down, windows shattered.

"Stiles?"

A black SUV speeds down the street towards Stiles, its front bumper crushed inward, the hood of its engine scratched and dented, white cracks sprawling across its windshield.

Stiles can't see any movement coming from inside his dad's car. He can't breathe.

"Stiles, come on!" Scott yells into the phone. "Are you okay? Tell me you weren't hit."

"Dad—" Stiles chokes out. "I've got to—" He takes a stumbling step forward despite his shriveled lungs.

The SUV skids to a stop in front of him, and a young woman steps out of the back seat, dressed in a white robe. She twists her hand just like Stiles always does, and an invisible force wraps around him, holding him in place. He chokes. Panic floods his body, and he still can't move, can't even tremble.

"Just stay put," Scott's tinny voice says. "I'm coming for you."

The world blurs around the edges. Stiles is trapped in his own body. This must be what claustrophobia feels like.

The woman walks up to him and places a hand on his forehead. "Sorry," she says, and she really sounds like she means it. He blacks out.

 

o—o—o

 

"Stiles! Stiles!" Scott shouts into the phone, but all he gets is static. "No." He can't lose Stiles, too.

"Where do you think he is?" Isaac asks, following Scott into the garage, both of them already to go in their boots and jackets.

"Home," Scott says as he hands a helmet to Isaac. "I can feel it." As he puts on his own helmet and settles astride his bike, his phone goes off. Heart racing, he flips his visor up and checks his texts. When Isaac leans over to read it, too, Scott pulls it away to keep him from seeing.

It's from Deucalion. If Scott wants to ensure the safety of both Stiles and his mother, it says, he'll meet Deucalion at the old Hale house. Alone, no exceptions.

"Scott?"

Scott swallows, body tense, and tucks his phone away before Isaac can get a look at it. It doesn't take him long to make his decision. "You can't come," he tells Isaac. Scott can't keep letting people get hurt. He cuts Isaac off before he can argue. "I need you…." He needs to come up with an excuse. "I need you to check on Allison."

"But Stiles—?"

Scott's never been good at lying, but he has to be now. "I think Allison might be in danger, so I need…. I need you to stay with her until she's safe." And if both she and Isaac stay together, then they really will be safer. "And I'll take care of Stiles."

Scott can feel Isaac tense behind him. "I can hear your heartbeat, Scott," he says.

Scott growls in frustration. "It doesn't matter. You need to go."

"No, I'm coming with you. You can't—"

Scott whirls on him. "Go, Isaac!" he yells more than shouts, teeth bared. Isaac flinches backwards like a kicked puppy, and Scott cringes from guilt. He curls a hand around Isaac's neck and pulls him close. "I need you to be safe."

Isaac holds still for a brief moment, then nods. "Okay," he murmurs. Scott lets him go, and he climbs off the bike.

"Thanks," Scott says, revving the engine.

A ghost of a grin tugs at Isaac's lips. "You know, for a moment there, your eyes were red."

Scott frowns, not sure what to think. "Be safe," he says, and then he spins the bike around, tires squealing, and takes off.

 

o—o—o

 

The world, a brown and creamy thing, like one of those hollow chocolate eggs with the gross, sticky sugar-cream inside, shifts and twists around Stiles, and an iridescent blur spins around him.

A single voice, flat and tight, chanting.

Something pricks his skin, but he doesn't know where.

Someone's beating a tambourine even though they're not in music class, and it makes Stiles try to frown. He can't, though. His muscles won't work.

 

o—o—o

 

Stiles can hear a fire crackling, quiet and contained. Starfished on his stomach on what he presumes to be some sort of sheet covering a mattress, he's somewhere warm and quiet. He's also naked, and he can't move.

Stiles does not like these details, but he needs to remain calm. He needs to breathe and keep his heart from racing, to keep his thoughts from getting away from him, needs to evaluate the situation and figure out how to get himself out of it. His father needs him, and he can't afford to have a panic attack. He needs to breathe, breathe, _breathe_ —

"You're awake," a woman's voice says, and Stiles inhales sharply, sending a thousand interspersed shocks of pain rippling through his muscles.

Opening his eyes, he says, "No, I'm not". At least his mouth works, dry as it is. Unable to so much as turn his head, he takes in what he can from his limited field of vision. The first thing he sees is a wall across the small room, made of weathered, grayed logs. Flickering firelight touches on it from the left side of the room, its source outside of Stiles's view. He thinks, in his peripheral vision on the right side of the room, opposite the fire, there might be a door.

And then there's his right arm, hanging over the edge of the twin bed, with hair-thin needles tipped in blue plastic buried in his skin.

Stiles faints.

 

o—o—o

 

Peter knows pain as well as himself, and this isn't pain. This is pathetic. (Thank God.)

He's underestimated Scott. He always has and always will, and the irony makes Peter laugh through the negligible amount of pain. Because Scott being pathetic? Scott being so disgustingly, rigidly moral?

It's the only thing keeping Peter alive.

 

o—o—o

 

When Stiles wakes up, the same woman who knocked him out at his house now sits in a tiny rickety chair right in front of his face, touching two fingers to his forehead. Reflexively, Stiles tries to scramble backwards, but all he accomplishes is a full body shudder, his muscles screeching in agony. A whimper escapes his throat, and the woman takes her hand away, face tight.

"I'm sorry," she says, and once again, it doesn't make a difference to Stiles. "I wish I didn't have to do this."

Stiles squints at her, taking in her appearance. The first thing he notices about her is her outfit: bright white robes, shapeless with overlapping folds. She's Korean, stout, with short, ruffled hair. Face unexpectedly wrinkled for someone in her late twenties or early thirties, she looks exhausted and weary.

Maybe he needs to wear her down a little further.

He decides to test the waters –try to throw her a curve ball. "You flew in last week," he says.

She's already still in her seat, but somehow she gets stiller. _Gotcha_ , Stiles thinks. She matches the description his father gave him of the strangers on the plane well enough. _Dad_ , he thinks, and his heart clenches. "From Canada," he adds. His neck aches from keeping his head turned to the side for so long. His eyes flick to the needles in his arm and away. He swallows, forcing himself not to focus on them.

She looks away and dusts off her spotless white robes, then stands up. When she turns to walk out of Stiles's field of view, he asks, "Was it your partner who hit my dad's car?"

She stops but doesn't answer. All Stiles can see is her skirt and the blurry outline of her torso. "Is my father dead?" he asks, jaw tight. Still no answer. "Did you kill him?" He considers setting her on fire but scratches the idea immediately. He's immobile. If he sets her on fire, the whole cabin will burn down, too, himself included, and he'll be no good to his dad if he's dead.

She walks away, out of his field of view, and for a second all he can do is stare at the empty chair she's left. She's going to leave him here, stewing in fear and claustrophobia, and she won't even give him an answer. And she claims she's sorry? "What did you do to my dad!?" he shouts, and the walls shake.

That's interesting. He grabs at that anger, tries to harness it and force it out of him. The walls tremble more, wood groaning, and—

"Enough," the woman orders from somewhere above him at the head of the bed, out of sight. A pinprick at the back of his neck sends him reeling, the anger in him shriveling up and leaving tears in the corners of his eyes.

He breathes in shakily. "I don't think this is proper acupuncture," he moans, struggling to hold onto consciousness.

"No, it's not," she agrees ruefully. She sits down in the chair again, this time holding a cheap party cup with a fast-food straw sitting in it. She pushes it towards his mouth. "You should drink. You're dehydrated."

Stiles suddenly realizes how very thirsty he is, but there's no way in hell he's taking anything from this lady. He clamps his mouth shut.

The woman sighs, looking away and swallowing. "Your father's alive." She glances back at him, dark brown irises almost blending into her pupils, making her eyes look impossibly deep. "And if you cooperate, he'll stay that way," she warns, making Stiles's gut clench. The lines around her eyes make it look like her earlier apology was genuine. "Please," she says, "it's just water, and you need it."

Stiles keeps his mouth firmly shut, and she sighs and pulls the cup away, moving to get up again.

"You drink first," he says, and she turns back towards him, a hint of an approving smile on her lips. She takes a sip then pushes the cup toward Stiles.

He fumbles for the straw and takes a cautious pull –it's water. From a well, he hopes, because it has an odd metallic taste to it, and he really hopes that taste doesn't come from poison. All the lady's efforts to keep him immobilized and powerless rather than injured and dying point to his short-term survival at the least, so he thinks he'll survive.

The water slips coolly down his throat, but the angle makes a trickle of it dribble onto the thin pillow under his cheek. He coughs, having accidentally swallowed down bubbles of air, and the woman pulls the cup away. "Where's my father?" he asks before he's even caught his breath.

The woman's jaw tightens, her brow furrowing slightly and eyes flicking to the side, and then she settles back into the chair. "He's in the hospital. ICU. He should survive."

Should.

"How bad is he?"

The woman shrugs. "I don't know." Before Stiles can ask, she says, "I haven't seen him, and they won't tell me any more. I'm as trapped as you are."

Stiles gives her the stink-eye. "I don't know, lady. You look pretty mobile to me."

"Hm. Cheeky." She folds her hands over her lap. "You must often get in trouble," she observes.

Stiles would shrug if he could. "Luckily I'm good at getting out of it." Sort of. "Who are 'they'?" He needs to hear it, if only to keep her talking. "The ones… keeping you trapped here?"

The woman sniffs, mouth twisting for a split-second with a world full of wrath and hate before her expression smooths over. "Who have you been troubling the most?"

Stiles holds his breath. "What have they got on you?"

The woman's expression hardens into something distanced and stone-cold. "Nothing you can help." She stands up. "That's enough questions." She walks out of sight, ignoring Stiles's protests.

 

o—o—o

 

Jennifer likes Stiles. He stabbed her to protect his family, and that speaks to her. What doesn't speak to her is being kept out of the loop. She could be so useful to them. She'd do anything to make Kali and Deucalion pay, even stooping to McCall's rules. So that Monday, when she hears of the Sheriff's hospitalization the day before and when neither McCall nor Stiles shows up to class, and when Lahey spends the whole period a nervous wreck, Jennifer begins to worry.

She texts her two missing students during the next passing period, but when they don't respond by the next bell, she places a hand on Lahey's assigned desk and signs an eavesdropping spell.

Two hours of Isaac's brooding later, she hears Lydia Martin.

_"I swear to God, Isaac, if you're still hiding things from me, I'll make sure you fail every—"_

_"I'm not lying. I don't know where they are... I'm sorry." A shaky inhale, then— "I shouldn't have let Scott convince me to stay."_

_"Maybe, but that's not your fault…. Come on, let's find Allison and get out of here. We don't have time to sit around. I've got a bad feeling about today."_

"Mrs. Blake?" one of her freshmen, Afiza, asks. A few of the students hide giggles. "Mrs. Blake, you, uh, you okay?"

Jennifer flicks her gaze towards Afiza, who flinches for some inexplicable reason. "One moment," Jennifer says. She pulls out her phone and makes a show of checking her texts, then looks back up. "Family emergency," she explains to everyone before focusing back on her student. "Congratulations, Afiza, you're teaching the rest of class." She glares around at the rest of them. "And don't any of you dare leave before the bell rings. I'll know if you do."

She grabs her purse and stalks out without another word, only pausing to knock a spell into the doorway to monitor the comings and goings of her students for the next half hour. (Never let it be said she doesn't keep her word.)

She finds Lydia, Isaac, and Allison Argent in the parking lot. They bristle when they see her, and she holds her hands up in a show of peace. "I know how to find Scott and Stiles."

 

o—o—o

 

They decide to seek out Stiles first since he was so obviously kidnapped, then separate. The three students stop at Scott's to collect his childhood stuffed rabbit, and Jennifer stops at her own house for supplies. They meet up at the Stilinski house and find Chris Argent already there. He brings with him a vial of the Sheriff's blood.

"Willingly given?" Jennifer asks, gesturing at the vial.

Chris nods, his eyes on Jennifer gauging.

"So he's awake now? He's doing well?" Lydia asks.

Chris looks away from Jennifer and nods at Lydia. "He's in bad shape, but he should survive."

Lydia nods tightly, and that's that. In the garage they find the Jeep. It's a bit larger than most personal objects, but Jennifer can deal with that. After Chris hands her the vial and she mixes it into the mixture, she orders him and Isaac out of the garage.

"I'm not leaving you alone with them," Chris growls, eyes flicking towards Allison and Lydia.

"Suit yourself," Jennifer says. "But Isaac stays out. I'm not stripping in front of one my students."

Isaac's mouth drops.

"We're your students, too," Lydia says, gesturing between her and Allison. Jennifer ignores her.

Chris stares at her. "…Stripping?"

Jennifer tries to keep the smirk off her face. "Magic doesn't care for social boundaries." She turns back to her limestone bowl and taps off the last drops of Stilinski blood and zinnia dust.

"We'll be all right," she hears Allison say, gentle and confident like she's already forgotten the corpses Jennifer's left in her wake.

"…Yell if she tries anything," Chris says, and Jennifer turns around to see him and Isaac walking back into the house, pressing the button to close the garage door as they go.

Jennifer hands Lydia a paper full of symbols and strips off her shirt and bra, much to the two girls' dismay. Jennifer only finds herself mildly amused by this, the weight of these children's lives and her impending revenge heavy on her shoulders.

Stiles is strong, vigilant. For him to have been taken so easily…. Jennifer can only pray this works.

 

o—o—o

 

Screeching tires, _thud_ , crunch. Tires, _thud_ , crunch. _Thud_.

 _Thud_.

_Thud._

The car crash plays over and over again in Stiles's mind's eye, and he sees his father's body, mangled in his seat, his bloody limbs twisted, his bones shattered and visible. His body flying forward, face banging against the steering wheel, jaw shattering. Glass flying everywhere, _impaling_ him. Him surviving, only to clutch at his chest with a soft groan before he stops breathing. 

The woman could have been lying about his survival. If Stiles were in her place, trying to soothe a raging son with magic powers who's lost his father, that's what he would have done. He would have said anything to get the damn kid to calm down.

He might never see his father's smile again. Might never see him laugh. Might never find his hidden stashes of junk food around the house again. Never duck a hand smacking him by the back of his head. Who's he gonna make fun of Hawaii 5-0 with if his dad's gone?

Stiles never even got to see the driver. The woman who'd grabbed him had come out of the backseat.

He wonders where Scott is. Is he looking for Stiles? He must be. Stiles hopes he got Lydia and Allison to help. Scott's a little too bull-headed to handle this on his own.

They would help, wouldn't they? Even after what Stiles did to Danny, they'd still search for him. Right?

_Peter would if they didn't._

The thought comes unbidden, and it's not something Stiles would have expected from himself. What frightens him most is that he believes it. He feels it in his gut – if no one else finds Stiles, Peter will. He'll find Stiles and insult him for letting his guard down and fuck him against the nearest wall. He'll find him.

Stiles shouldn't believe that. Peter's only out for himself, and Stiles can't let himself think otherwise. He can't afford to _rely_ on him. It'll only end in tragedy.

But maybe, even if Peter _intends_ to search for Stiles, what if he can't? His wards went off, and he didn't answer his phone. Maybe the alphas took him…. Or maybe nothing's wrong. Maybe a wayward deputy broke into Peter's apartment like Stiles's dad did, and Peter's just an asshole who refuses to answer his phone. Even though he told Stiles to call him next time the wards off. Even though he always answers his phone.  

God. Stiles's dad is probably dead or dying. Scott's probably getting himself into trouble by trying to be a hero. And Peter's probably been killed by the alpha pack in his own home.

And Stiles is here, immobilized and trying not to drool out the corner of his mouth.

The Korean woman sits cross-legged on a yoga mat across from him, her hands on her knees and her eyes closed. She's changed into a pair of purple yoga pants and a white tank top, and without her robes covering her arms, Stiles notices the tattoo of a sword on her left arm. The hilt starts on her shoulder, a black handle topped with an indented knob at the end on her shoulder bone. The blade goes straight down to her elbow, an oddly shimmering silver filled with indistinguishable symbols that twist and churn like they're alive.

Stiles has pestered her with questions about the alphas and his father, but she hasn't said a word. He doesn't even know if she's heard him. "What's your tattoo for?" he asks.

She opens her eyes, startled. She grimaces and mutters, " _J’cogne des clous_ ," which, okay, suddenly French, which Stiles does not understand at all. Meeting his eyes, the woman says, her voice hoarse at first, "It's a Saingeom." Stiles has no idea what that is, but he has a feeling it's a sword. "It… used to belong to my family," she says. She gets up and rolls up the yoga mat.

"Used to?"

She looks at him coldly. "It was destroyed."

She starts to walk past him. "Wait!" She pauses, and he says, desperate for any scrap of information she might give him, "Was it Deucalion?"

She laughs –a humorless, broken thing. "If only," she murmurs.

"Who?" he asks before she decides to leave again.

She observes him for a long moment, the wind outside loud compared to the silence of the cabin. It hurts Stiles's eyes to look up at her from this angle, but at last, she pulls the chair back around and sits in front of him. "Where do you think I'm from?" she asks him.

"…Korea?"

She nods, lips pursed. "Well, at least you're not a complete American." Before Stiles can react, she asks, "Which one?"

"Which Korea?" She nods impatiently, and that is so not a question Stiles was expecting. Since she feels the need to check this with him, he takes a chance and asks, "North?"

She nods again. "I'm sure you've heard stories about us. About what's been done to us." She breathes in deeply and leans forward in her chair. "My family practiced... 'muism.' Shamanism. This—" she says, brushing a hand over her tattoo, "is a memory. This sword was our family's most precious heirloom, our Saingeom. With it, we were poor but respected, loved. I've been told life was good back then. Our… situation took a turn for the worse when the Etern—" she cuts herself off and looks away before correcting herself, "when Kim Il-sung took power.

"We were said to have 'tainted blood', but for years our mudangs and our spirits were powerful enough to protect us from the worst. And then we trusted the wrong person. I thought—" She shakes her head and looks away, seeming to gather herself.

She takes Stiles's hand between her own and looks him in the eye. "The worst of our kind have a way of twisting their way into our lives and destroying us," she says. "If you catch their attention, if you try to fight back, they'll _take everything_ from you." The designs on the blade of her tattoo shudder and fade with her words, making Stiles blink, an unsettling feeling churning in his gut. Her clammy fingers tighten around his hand, and she says, "Sometimes it's safest for you and everyone you love for you to sit back and let the world carry on without you. Do you understand?"

Stiles wishes he could pull his hand away. He swallows. "Deucalion's not a dictator with a whole country under his control."

Her fingers clench around his, shooting shocks of pain up his arm. "No, but if he was born in a different situation, perhaps. I know his kind, Stilinski. He thrives off power, and you've _really_ pissed him off."

"I'm not gonna sit back—!"

She cuts him off, tugging him forward so that his body shrieks in agony. "If you do," she hisses, "your friend Scott will live. Your friends will live. Your father will live, and you'll be able to spend the rest of your life with your best friend."

Lost, Stiles loses his breath for a second. "What? How? I don't… I don't understand."

The woman huffs impatiently. "You might have pissed Deucalion off first and foremost, but you also proved yourself, and now he wants you, too."

Stiles and Scott, brothers for life, together…. Stiles isn't stupid. He can put the pieces together. Once Scott joins Deucalion's pack, Deucalion will use his power over Scott to control Stiles, and vice versa. They'll leave Beacon Hills and do monstrous things, and they'll probably never see their loved ones again. But they'll survive and be together. Stiles's father will heal. Lydia, Allison, Isaac, the Hales, they'll all be safe. They might even get Melissa back, too.

"I need to think," Stiles murmurs.

The woman pats his hand. "I'm glad," she says, pulling away. She stands up and wanders out of his field of view. He hears the clinking of dishes.

And he does think. He's given up so much to fight Deucalion, but was it really worth it? He knows death intimately now. After what he did to Danny, no one trusts him anymore, not really. He pushed and he pushed, and Melissa got kidnapped and his father got put in the hospital for it. Maybe he really is better off doing nothing.

_Bang._

The front door blasts off its hinges and hits the ground several feet away. Barely within the blurry edges of Stiles's vision, he sees _Jennifer_ of all people struggling to walk through the doorway, her hands trembling in front of her as they pull apart a watery, transparent sheet of light – magic protecting the building, an advanced warding technique Stiles hasn't dared to try yet.

The Korean woman skids into the room, already chanting, her sword tattoo glowing, but Jennifer tears through her magic like butter, eyes turning a milky white. The magic collapses with a pulse Stiles feels in his bones, and Jennifer stalks in, followed by Allison and Chris Argent, armed with knives and a handgun, respectively.

The Korean woman flings unidentifiable curses at Jennifer – flashes of light that Jennifer bats aside, her mouth set in a firm line. The woman slides backwards when Jennifer throws a pulse of air at her, arms up to shield her face, and in her distraction, Allison throws a knife, pinning the palm of her left hand to the wall.  

The Korean woman screams and chants something Stiles doesn't understand, and _something_ makes Jennifer stagger and clutch her stomach mere feet away from the woman. Blood blooms around Jennifer's hands, and she grimaces, eyes darting around in front of her. Her hand flies up, grabbing something invisible that cuts through her palm like a knife.

Stiles doesn't see it at first, and then something catches his attention, a shimmer in the air, like a a barely visible shadow. It wrenches its sword out of Jennifer's hand, making her gasp, and swings at her again. Jennifer whispers something, and flames soar around the shimmer, wrapping around it and squeezing until it disappears in seconds.

The Korean woman jerks, reaching for the knife in her hand, but Jennifer twists her own hand and freezes the woman in place. She crosses her arms, tilting her head to the side. "How are you, Ri?" she asks.

"Better than you," The Korean woman – Ri snarls. "You feel like death."

Jennifer shrugs. "Didn't you hear? There's a Darach in Beacon Hills."

Ri's mouth falls open.

"You know why I contacted you. I'm surprised you didn't put two and two together," Jennifer says to Ri before frowning, a look of hurt flashing across her face. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Stiles _would_ ask 'You two _know_ each other?', but he's a little preoccupied by all the needles keeping his body immobilized. "Can someone _please_ get these out of me? I literally can't move."

Allison, standing next to him, makes a noise of sympathy and takes his hand. Stiles appreciates it. Being alone with his thoughts and trapped in his own body hasn't been a very fun experience for him, and it's comforting to receive human contact from someone he trusts.

With Isaac standing guard at the door, the two Argents hovering over Stiles, and enough threatening remarks from Jennifer, they're quickly able to convince Ri to take the needles out. It's not actually that painful, although Stiles does feel a little sore, and when he finally moves his neck he finds himself with the crick of a lifetime and kinda wants to die. Fortunately, he has other priorities. Allison's confirmed his dad's condition –in the ICU and relatively stable—and nobody seems to know where Scott is.

"We brought Scott's stuffed rabbit," Allison says.

"We can use your blood for the spell," Jennifer says to Stiles. "It won't be as strong as familial blood, but given how close you two are, it should be close enough."

Stiles doesn't mention the weird blood-brothers ritual he and Scott had done when they were fourteen and had just seen _The Hangover_ , but he figures it might help. Allison lends him a knife. He goes to cut—

"Don't," Ri says. Jennifer's hand twitches, and Ri flinches away, then straightens her shoulders and says, "There's no magic that can affect Scott right now."

Jennifer inhales sharply. "What did you do?"

Ri's jaw tightens. "I made sacrifices, like you did." She sniffs in disdain. "I used animals, though, not innocent people." She ignores Jennifer's look and continues, "I created amulets that negate all magic directly cast on the wearer. It's an old, Arabic spell." She looks at Jennifer pointedly. "Not even you should be able to get around it."

"Who's wearing them besides Scott?" Stiles asks.

"Deucalion, Kali, and…." She hesitates, lips pursed.

"Ri," Jennifer says, voice brooking no argument.

Ri swallows and blinks furiously, like she's trying not to cry. "They have my brother, Julia. They turned him."

Jennifer reaches out hesitantly. "I'm sorry," she says. As soon as her hand alights on Ri's shoulder, Ri seems to curl in on herself. Jennifer sighs and clenches her hand around Ri's shoulder.

Stiles can empathize with Ri far too easily. "Help us get him back," he says.

"I can't," Ri says. "Deucalion has complete control over him. If he sees me with you…." Ri shakes her head. "I can't risk it. But if you promise not to kill him," she says, looking around, "I won't follow you. I won't try to stop you. Please. He's only twenty. He's supposed to get his American GED next year. Shin - he never wanted this."

Stiles, Isaac, and the Argents glance around at each other.

"Ri's an honest person," says Jennifer. "Family means everything to her. You can trust her on this."

This is coming from Jennifer, but.... Stiles meets Allison's gaze and nods slightly.

"Deal," Allison says to Ri.

Ri breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank you. When you find him, Julia, let me know." She gives the hunters an appreciative look. "Magic won't affect them while they wear the amulets, but wolves bane bullets and all sorts of weapons still work. And if you can get close enough to get the amulets off," she smiles grimly at Stiles, "kill'em. Kill'em fast and as painfully as possible."

Stiles salutes her.

"Sounds like a plan," Isaac observes. "But, uh, how do we find them in the first place?"

Ri shrugs apologetically and winces when the movement jostles her wounded hand.

The group looks around at each other, unsure.

Stiles squares his shoulders and breathes in deeply. "We find Peter," he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *content warning for car accidents, mention of needles, and basic description of deliberately harmful acupuncture (not described in detail)*
> 
> Okay, so, disclaimer: I'm not North Korean. I don't know any North Koreans. I did a lot of research, but that doesn't mean I know everything about North Korea at all, so if I screwed up my portrayal at all or offended anyone, please let me know. (Also, Ri's well-traveled and acquired her acupuncture skills from Taoists, not her native culture.)
> 
> Also, some terminology for those who may be curious (or who might like to correct me):  
> Mudang: a Korean shaman, usually a role inherited by the women in a family; part of the lower class but may acquire patronage  
> acupuncture: not at all what I portrayed lol; that was a very bad version of it that I made up because antagonists gotta do what antagonists gotta do  
> burning white paper: Idk if you noticed this, but Stiles did this at the beginning of the chapter, unwittingly performing part of a muism purification ritual (I don't think I'm gonna do anything with this; I just think it's a fun fact)  
> "J’cogne des clous" – "I'm so tired" in Quebecer French
> 
> pictures of Saingeom swords:  
> [pic1](http://www.hdgd.com.mx/traditional%20swords.jpg)  
> [pic2](http://www.swordsofkorea.com/sword_5c.jpg)  
> [pic3](http://www.arscives.com/historysteel/images1/KO-10.jpg)


	19. Sudden Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new content warnings.

Before they burst in guns a'blazing, they call all three Hales for good measure. None of them answer, and Stiles fights the urge to claw himself out of his own skin, his muscles tight with contained agitation.

Lydia meets them in the parking lot of Peter's apartment complex, bearing food, Stiles's ADHD medication, and his baseball bat. She brusquely checks Stiles's health (muscles aching, a little dehydrated and hungry, but in good shape otherwise) and forces protein bars down his throat, prying every detail of his brief imprisonment she can out of him. She looks at Stiles sharply. "You'll keep your promise, won't you, Stiles? You won't kill her brother." She sounds threatening, like she believes Stiles will kill at a moment's notice.

"I won't," Stiles promises. I'll try my best, he thinks, and he hopes it's enough.

"…Good," Lydia says.

They climb up the stairs, trying to keep their movement quiet. Stiles leads the way. Each footstep makes him worry more about what they'll find.

He skips the second stair to the top, and the rest follow.

He inhales sharply when he sees the apartment. The front door lies on the floor, a jagged crack splintering away from the knob. The couch and loveseat have been knocked askew. One of the table chairs lies on its side. There's dark, dried blood spattered across the wrinkled rug underneath the coffee table. Not a single chess piece remains standing on the board.

Allison and Chris enter first, weapons at the ready. Stiles and Jennifer follow, leaving Isaac to stand guard at the door with Lydia.

Allison checks the kitchen, then—"Cora?" she asks softly.

The rest of the group converges on Allison, finding her in the entrance to the hallway leading down to Peter's bedroom. Cora sits on the floor at the end of the hallway closest to them, her face pale and her arms wrapped around her legs.

Unblinking, she stares at the wall in front of her. There's a long, thick streak of dried blood in the middle of it. It looks disturbingly lumpy.

Lydia kneels down beside Cora. "Cora? Where's Peter?"

Cora tears her eyes away from the streak of blood and looks at Lydia. Stiles leans closer. There's no recognition in Cora's eyes. "Who?" she asks, voice soft and distant.

Lydia narrows her eyes. "Peter, your uncle."

"I don't—" Cora squeezes her eyes shut, then reopens them and blinks rapidly. She looks around at them, brow furrowed. "I should—" She scrambles up, stumbling against the wall behind her before regaining her footing. "I need to go," she says, trying to push past them.

"Woah, hold up," Stiles says, stopping her by the shoulders.

"No, I need to go." She pulls away from him and tries to push past Isaac.

Isaac holds her in place. "No, we need to talk."

She looks up at him and narrows her eyes. "I know you."

"Yes," he says like he's talking to a toddler. "I'm Isaac. We spent months trapped in a bank vault together, remember?"

Cora furrows her brow and shakes her head unsurely.

Stiles glances at Lydia. "Amnesia?"

Lydia shakes her head, and Stiles can practically see the gears spinning. "That's a health issue. It shouldn't happen to werewolves…."

Jennifer touches Cora's cheek for a brief second before Cora bats her hand away and snaps, "Don't touch me."

Jennifer turns to Stiles and Lydia. "It doesn't feel magical."

"It could be a dissociative fugue," Lydia muses. "It can be caused by trauma, and I think this would qualify," she says, eyes flicking to the blood on the wall.

"There's nothing wrong with me," Cora says, crossing her arms. "Now let me go."

"It's rare," Lydia continues, "but it might explain why she disappeared after the Hale fire…." She turns to Cora. "Do you know who you are?"

Cora looks at Lydia like she's batshit. "Yeah, I'm Cora."

"Cora who?" asks Lydia.

"Cora…" Cora frowns as she tries to remember. "Raleigh. Cora Raleigh."

 _What the fuck_ , Stiles thinks, hands clenching into fists.

Lydia purses her lips. "Do you know who Derek and Peter Hale are?"

Cora shakes her head, looking scared and lost. "No." She glances around, the whites of her eyes showing. "Let me go." She tries to push past Lydia and Allison, werewolf strength and all. "Let me go!"

"Isaac," Chris says, and Isaac grabs her and holds her in place, making her struggle more.

"Let me go, let me go, let me go!"

"Hey hey hey," Isaac says, eyes flashing yellow. "We're not here to hurt you. I promise," he says, thumb rubbing circles into her inner elbow. "We just want to make sure you're safe."

She stills and looks up at him, still scared.

"We should take her to Deaton's," Chris says.

"He's a doctor," Isaac explains to her.

"I don't… I don't want to see any doctors," Cora says. "I'm fine."

"It's just to keep you safe. Temporarily," Isaac adds. "This uh… this town's not safe."

"I'll take her," Lydia volunteers, but Cora huddles closer to Isaac.

"No," she says quickly. "I want to stay with… Isaac?" she asks.

He nods, and Lydia sighs, glancing around the group. She tries arguing more – Isaac's their only functioning werewolf right now, and they'll need him in a fight, but Cora doesn't budge. "Fine," Lydia finally says. "All three of us will go. I'll drive." She gestures for Isaac and Cora to follow her, but Stiles grabs her arm first.

He leans in, stomach twisting. This doesn't sit right with him, but… "We need her blood," he says to Lydia in a low voice. Of course, Cora's werewolf hearing picks this up.

"My blood!?" She yells. "What the hell is wrong with you people?" She yanks her arm out of Isaac's grip and tries to run back down the hallway, but he pulls her back and slams her against the wall.

"Calm down," he tells her, eyes glowing.

Her face shifts – forehead, teeth, eyes and all. Snarling, she uppercuts her right fist into Isaac's jaw, then kicks him away from her. She turns toward their group while he gasps, her knees bent, ready to spring. Jennifer holds a hand out—

Inhaling deeply, Stiles places his hand on Jennifer's arm until she lowers it and steps forward, holding his hands up. "You can listen to my heartbeat to tell if I'm lying," he says softly. "You don't remember, and that's okay, but your family's in danger. So is my friend. And I'm supposed to keep all of you safe." When she doesn't move, golden eyes pinned on him, he continues, "We need your blood to find them. Not much of it, either," he says.

She straightens, eyes flicking between him and the front door.

"Please," he adds, voice strained.

"And then you'll let me go?" she asks cautiously.

"And then Isaac and Lydia will take you to our… doctor. Dr. Deaton. To make sure you're okay," he says carefully.

When she regards him silently for more than a few seconds, Stiles begins to lose his patience. _If only it didn't have to be willingly given_ , he thinks darkly. "Cora, I swear to God—"

Lydia touches his arm. "We're running out of time," she says to Cora. "Your family is running out of time."

Cora's jaw tightens, and she looks back between Isaac behind her and the group in front of her. Her eyes flick to the gristly blood on the wall before she makes eye contact with Stiles. "Okay," she says, and Stiles sighs in relief.

After that, Cora seems to calm, although she stays inordinately close to Isaac. She barely winces when the knife cuts her palm, and she stays silent as she lets her own blood drip into Jennifer's limestone bowl.

In the meantime, Stiles makes a beeline for the chessboard. He collects the fallen chess pieces off the floor and table and methodically repositions them, the black first, then the white. When he finishes, there's still one missing: the polished white knight with the melted head. Stiles lets out a shuddering breath, then gets on his hands and knees and looks under the furniture. He finds it under the loveseat. It's cold to the touch, but it warms up in his hand as he stares down at it.

A fracture runs through it, starting in the middle of the horse's throat and nearly reaching the outside arch of its neck, and Stiles wonders….

Lydia hasn't screamed yet, so he clenches his teeth together and stands up.

Everyone's staring at him, and someone's wrapped Cora's hand.

Stiles swallows and sets the knight in its rightful place. "We'll use the board," he says. "I'll cast it."

There's a long moment; then Isaac says, "It didn't seem to work out too well for you last time."

Stiles gives him a hard look. "That's because Melissa was too far away." He has to do this.

"And if Peter is, too?" asks Chris.

"Then we'll figure it out," says Stiles. "But… if they've taken Scott, Derek, and Peter – that's a handful. They shouldn't have gotten far." He yanks off his shirt, ending the conversation. "So," he says with a pale smirk, "Who wants a piece of this?"

To Chris's slight displeasure, both Lydia and Allison take over the job of finger-painting. He needn't worry. In the corner of Stiles's mind, he's storing this away for future fantasies, but for now he's too busy trying to stay calm and not scratch all the itchiness the drying blood leaves on his skin.

Finally, they finish, and Allison hands him Jennifer's silver knife. Stiles kneels by the coffee table and cuts a shallow line into his palm. Hot blood spills out around the edges of the blade, and for once he doesn't wince as sharp pain shoots up his arm. He imagines Peter and his wicked smirk, his elongated canines, his lips on Stiles's throat…. "Peter Hale," Stiles says. He slaps his bloody palm down in the center of the board, narrowly avoiding jostling the pieces, and the world lurches around him.

"Stiles!" someone says. A hand grabs his shoulder, and he reaches for it. He breathes in and out, focusing on the air and the warmth of the palm underneath his, and the world comes to.

He looks up at Lydia and staggers upward. He clenches her hand, then looks around. There's a tether pulling him east. "Take Cora to Deaton's," he says to Lydia and Isaac. "Don't leave until you hear back from one of us," he says, jerking his head at the rest of the group. "And if I don't come back, Lydia, tell my dad I ate his secret stash of beef jerky."

 

o—o—o

 

"Melissa, your eyes," Deucalion says, calm and placid like ordering people to claw their own eyes out is a daily occurrence. And he calls Peter a sociopath.

Melissa trembles, her hands clenched in white-knuckled fists at her side. She stares at Scott, face screwed up with tears and determination. Peter would roll his eyes, but after seeing her eat wolfsbane, break her own fingers, and gut herself, he's finding the whole thing terribly repetitive.

In front of him, Scott turns and advances on Deucalion, only to be held back by Kali.

"Melissa," Deucalion demands. He flashes her eyes at her, and she jerks into movement with a sob, bringing her shaky hands up to her face, claws unfurling.

"Mom—" Scott's voice breaks.

Oh, the melodrama. Peter's ready to get it over with and kill himself at this point. "Do something already, Scott," he drawls. (Beside him, Derek sighs. Oh, Derek.) "This whole thing's getting old," Peter adds, giving Deucalion a pointed look. And if Peter ordering Scott to get it over with happens to prevent the boy from taking charge and finally becoming a true alpha in his own right, then Peter will gladly take pleasure, however brief, in Deucalion’s irritation.

With a growl of frustration, Scott lashes out and tears out Peter's throat in a flash of agonizing pain that makes Peter’s body jerk backwards, his lungs heaving against the sudden onslaught of liquid and his muscles straining against his chains.

Blood gushes down his front, a wet heat that burns his fever-cold skin, and he grins as he chokes and the world darkens around him. It's all so incredibly pointless.

But then his muscles and tendons and skin knit themselves together, more slowly than Scott's last attempt at violence but steadily nonetheless, and Peter laughs as he coughs up the blood in his lungs, the stony ceiling above him coming back into focus. He rolls his head forward and spits blood out at Deucalion's feet. "You know, I've tried using Melissa against Scott before," he says, voice hoarse. "It didn't work very well."

"Peter, shut up," Derek growls, and Peter rolls his eyes.

Deucalion ignores them both, as usual, and waves a dismissive hand at Melissa, who's shaking so hard with her fingers on her eyelids that Peter half-expects her to fall over. "You can stop," Deucalion says, and Melissa drops her hands to her sides, breathing hard.

Scott steps towards Melissa, but Deucalion blocks his way with his cane. "After everything he's done to you," he murmurs, gripping Scott's shoulder with his free hand, "and you still let him live. You are truly remarkable." ( _Remarkably stupid_ , Peter thinks, but those stupid morals are what's keeping Peter alive, so….) Deucalion tilts his head up to observe Peter, red eyes taunting. "Perhaps I should give you a break," he says to Scott without looking away from Peter. "Something a little less hands-on."

Peter has a bad feeling about this.

"Kali, the blow torch," Deucalion says. He smiles down at Scott. "You and your friends have set him on fire before, haven't you? It shouldn't be too difficult for you a second time around."

When Peter gets free, he'll rip off Deucalion's limbs and force them down his throat until he chokes to death or bleeds out, whichever comes first.

Outside the broken glass windows of the old lobby, the wind whips the snow into a flurry. Its howling drowns out Peter’s screams.

 

o—o—o

 

Ariadne Peaks. Or, as the weather-beaten sign reads in the font version of comic sans’ awkward neighbor, “RI D  AK”. It used to be a popular ski lodge in the 80s. Within a two-hours drive of Beacon Hills, Stiles’ parents may have even vacationed here.

Now, in the misty twilight, Chris’s gas-guzzling SUV powers up the winding road towards the top of the mountain, its chain-covered wheels packing down the early snowfall with a plastic-sounding rumble. The snow’s fresh, and it’s covered up any previous tire tracks. Jennifer’s cloaked the four of them plus the car with a silencing spell, but she said an invisibility one would take too much out of her.

“You should’ve mentioned this earlier,” Stiles mutters as he finishes bandaging her middle with perhaps a little too much force.

“You saw it happen,” she says.

“I expected it to heal. You know, with all that energy you stole from killing people. Like my friend. My friend Heather. My friend Heather who you killed.”

She gives him a guilty but slightly betrayed look, like she expected Stiles to let it go since she saved his life. As if. “I was gutted by a spirit guardian,” she says. “And healing’s never been my forte.”

“I think I see something,” Allison says from the front. “Is that it?”

Stiles focuses on the ‘hook’ tugging at his center. It’s stronger than ever, urging him towards the two-story, ranch-style building further up the mountain. Its snow-covered roof sags, and moonlight glints off the broken glass windows thinly through the flurry. “Feels like it,” Stiles murmurs. A small part of him wants to stop the car and go home. He doesn’t want to know what they’ll find.

They make one more loop around the mountain, their breaths muffled only by the rumble of the tires. If Stiles squints, he can make out the dim silhouettes of the old ski chairlifts hanging between the leafless treetops in a line parallel to the road.

It’s just the the four of them: two hunters, a Darach, and whatever the hell Stiles is, up against whatever Deucalion’s set up. He managed to coerce Ri and her brother Shin into his cause. Who knows who or what else he’s managed to gather.

Finally, they can see the ski lodge directly ahead of them. They’ll have to drive through a broken-down underpass leading to the parking lot first, its edges overgrown with the dying weeds left over from autumn, the road beneath it a bare patch of cracked concrete.

“Ambush?” Allison asks.

Chris nods and parks the car at the edge of the road some fifty feet from the underpass. He glances back at Jennifer. “How much power do you have left?”

“For offense? More than enough.”

He turns to Stiles.

Stiles shrugs. “No idea. I feel like I’m good, but I’m still figuring this whole thing out.”

“Can you shoot?”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. He wouldn’t expect Chris to trust him with a gun. “I can.” His dad taught him when he was younger. “But it’s been a long time, and I’m not a fan of guns.” He fingers the handle of his bat sitting in the stairwell. “I should be good with this…. Unless you have a stun gun, too?”

Chris nods. To Jennifer, he asks, “Does the silencing spell cover us outside of the car?”

At her affirmative, he and Allison get out and collect weapons out of the trunk. Stiles and Jennifer follow. It doesn’t surprise Stiles to find the Argents keep an arsenal in the back of their car. Allison takes her usual crossbow and knives, Chris takes out his guns, and Stiles grabs a stun gun. Then Chris pulls out two bullet proof vests and hands them over to Jennifer and Stiles.

“Woah,” Stiles says. “I know who to call when the zombie apocalypse hits.” His hands shake as he clips the vest on.

Allison touches his arm. “They’re gonna be okay.”

Stiles grits his teeth. “After everything we’ve been through, how can you say that?”

“I know Scott.”

Her eyes are so deep and sincere, and Stiles wants to believe her, but after everything…. “I hope you’re right,” he says.

The Argents advance on the underpass first, Chris on the left, Allison on the right, and Stiles and Jennifer in the rear, keeping an eye on the surroundings behind them. Stiles shivers in the cold. He hadn’t expected to find himself on a mountaintop, of all places. They step into the mouth of it, snow-covered shoes slapping wet on the concrete. There’s graffiti on the walls.

Allison cocks her crossbow when they reach the end. They step out into silence, the air still but for the gently falling snow. There’s an empty parking lot, the lodge on the other side, and the enormous, rusted wheel of the ski lift to their right at the other end of the parking lot. Stiles glances behind them to make sure they’re not being snuck up on — nothing.

Allison fires, the twanging of the arrow making Stiles’s head jerk towards the noise. The arrow hits a figure at the end of the parking lot crouching behind the huge metal beam supporting the giant gear of the ski lift.

The figure snarls and charges toward them, and another arrow sends it careening to the side. It — an unfamiliar white male with glowing yellow eyes now visible through the snow — staggers and falls on his side. He lifts his head and howls—

A gunshot, and the werewolf collapses to the ground, unmoving.

“The silencing spell won’t have covered that,” Jennifer murmurs.

They look towards the lodge, some couple hundred feet away. The snow falls heavier, limiting their field of vision even further, and the chairlifts rock above them with the strengthening wind, their rusty hinges creaking painfully.

They make it to the lodge with only one more assault. The snowstorm and the darkness around them allows another werewolf to sneak up on them from behind, but Jennifer notices and lashes out just before he can plunge his claws through Stiles’ back. Her spell sends a broken off tree branch straight through the werewolf’s stomach.

Stiles leans closer to identify the wolf as he coughs up blood. Another white male, so not Ri’s brother Shin. After a quick reminder to watch out for Shin, they assess the lodge. A large, crumbling rock chimney takes up the wall next to the frame where the entrance used to be, and all Stiles can see through the opening is pitch black. It’s a two-floor, long, ranch-style building that could have at least twenty rooms on the first floor alone. Stiles refuses to split up. That never goes well.

The wind howls, but there’s something additional…. Stiles tilts his head up towards the second floor. There’s a wall of smashed windows directly above them. “Does that sound like screaming to you?” he asks, a heavy knot in his stomach.

The screaming stops, and a broken wolf’s howl rises above the wind, and the four humans trade looks. Stiles swallows. “We need to get up there. Now.”

Allison nods once and leads them into the entrance. Jennifer summons a glowing ball of electric blue, shimmering fire. “Only we can see it,” she explains, and Stiles wishes he had taken her up on her offer to teach up because in retrospect, he would know so much more useful shit if he had. But now’s not the time to think about the past.

The previously rustic lobby’s now dilapidated and dangerous. An iron chandelier’s fallen into the center of a moth-eaten circle of ugly green 70s couches and arm chairs surrounding the fireplace, and the small bar’s littered with broken glass. Chunks of plaster and fiberglass litter the ground, and paint peels off the hole-ridden walls. Dark, seemingly never-ending hallways split off from the lobby, and their emptiness makes Stiles press closer to the group.

What clearly used to be a grand wooden staircase leads up to the second floor from the other side of the lobby. Their group takes it, eyes and ears seeking any sign of a threat. When Stiles’s left foot plunges through the third stair, he yelps, and the entire group turns on him, his heart threatens to leap out of his chest. “Do you think they heard that?”

Jennifer frowns. “The spell covered it. But remember, they can still smell and see us.”

“She definitely can,” Chris says, and then he fires at a blue-eyed werewolf at the top of the staircase. She dodges the bullet and vaults down the stairs towards them, only to meet an untimely death at the end of Allison’s knives.

When no more werewolves creep out of the woodwork, they all step over the dead one’s body and continue up the stairs. “How many more do you think there are?” Allison asks.

“Depends how desperate Deucalion was for canon fodder,” Stiles ponders. “I think I made him pretty desperate.”

He gets an off-putting glance from Chris for that comment, but thankfully the rescue mission’s too urgent for any further comments. When they reach the landing, the shouting becomes clearer. It’s Peter’s, interspersed with snarls and a sound like a blow dryer.

Peter’s not supposed to sound like that. Peter doesn’t do pain. He does anger and slyness, not — not this desperation. Knuckles tight around the handle of his bat, Stiles nearly snarls himself and pushes his way between the Argents and stalks forward. There’s a door down the hallway leading towards the room with the broken windows, and Peter’s groans and shouts and snarls get louder as Stiles gets closer.

“Stiles,” Allison hisses, grabbing him before he bursts through the door. “Wait.” She presses her ear to the door, and Stiles forces himself to take a breath and follow suit.

Chains rattle, Peter snarl dissolves into a pained whimper, and the blow drying sound stops.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Scott pleads, voice barely muffled by the weather-beaten door. “I swear, I’ll join you, just stop making me hurt him.”

God, not Scott. Not this.

“Then kill him and end it. You’ll be doing him a favor…. Don’t you think?” asks Deucalion.

“I’ve had worse,” says Peter’s voice, so hoarse it sounds like his vocal cords have been through a woodchip grinder.

“The wards,” warns a new male voice, and Allison and Stiles glance at each other. “Someone’s here.”

Shit. Stiles rounds on Jennifer—

“Destroy the wards,” she says to Stiles. “I’ll hold them off.” She pulls Stiles and Allison back and blasts open the door. A shimmering veil prevents her from crossing the frame, but she claws it open right in time to beat back a veritable sledgehammer of magical snow sent by some sort of sorcerer in by the windows.

Stiles would make a crack about _Frozen_ , but his heart leaps into his throat when he takes in the sight before him: Peter, dangling from a heavy iron chain wrapped around one of the support beams of the ceiling, his skin scorched and blistered, tattered clothes practically ashes hanging off him. Wolfsbane twines around the chain, burned and withered where it curls around his blackened wrists. Scott trembles in front of him, blood-stained hands curled around a blowtorch. Derek hangs from another chain a beam over, Deucalion watches from the side, and Kali stands beside Deucalion with a hand yanking Melissa’s head back. Melissa’s eyes glow yellow.

Peter sees Stiles and laughs, breath wheezing.

The blowtorch drops to the floor with a hollow thunk. “Stiles,” Scott croaks — begs, really, and Stiles bursts into action. He pushes through the magical wall of the doorway and rushes in panting while Jennifer tosses curses at the sorcerer. He ignores the feeling of his bones creaking as he turns around the room. The wards have been carved into the doorframe, and Stiles motions at the Argents, still stuck behind the wall, to step back.

“Agni,” he says, holding a guiding hand out, and flames rush over the frame, searing the wards into nothing. The crushing ache in his bones fades.

Allison fires an arrow that barely skims Stiles’ cheek and hits someone just behind him, Chris steps in, pushing Stiles behind him, and the fight begins.

It’s all too much for Stiles to keep track of. Jennifer and the sorcerer’s spells flash back and forth. Arrows fly as Allison advances on Deucalion and Kali, and then the arrows switch into knives. Chris takes her side, staring down the sights of his guns. Stiles twists his hand to slam Kali away, but his magic does nothing. Of course. “The pendants!” he shouts as Kali knocks an arrow out of the air and sinks into a crouch. “Get’em off—”

A body tackles him to the floor, and a clawed hand swipes down towards Stiles’s throat. “Shin?” Stiles asks, and the terrified wolf’s face melts into confusion for a millisecond before he sweeps his claws downward again—

But Stiles tazers him first and scrambles out from beneath the dude before he can recover. Shin heaves himself upward, and Stiles whacks him with his baseball bat, knocking him out. “Stay put,” Stiles says.

Chris shouts in pain, and Stiles looks up to see Kali yanking Chris’s arm straight backwards in an angle it should never be in. Allison tangles with Kali, forcing her to drop Chris’s arm. The two women move like a whirlwind, knives against claws amidst shoving and kneeing and elbowing.

Jennifer, meanwhile, buckles, clutching her bandaged stomach. The other sorcerer gets a shot in, whipping the snowstorm around them into Jennifer’s own private tornado. She gapes like a fish out of water.

Stiles twists his hand and sends the sorcerer crashing up into the ceiling. The tornado dissipates, leaving Jennifer sucking in greedy breaths, and the sorcerer plummets to the floor. He steadies himself midair like a fucking Magneto-wannabe and gestures at Stiles, who panics as the bones of his neck twist to the side, power coursing through his body to fight it off—

The blowtorch flies through the air and plunges through the sorcerer’s body, and he collapses to the ground with a gaping hole in his chest. Panting, Jennifer staggers over to Stiles. “You all right?”

Stiles nods, neck twinging but thankfully unbroken. “Good kid,” he hears her say. He takes quick stock of the room. Peter still hangs in the middle of the room, seeming to have passed out. Beside him, Derek seems unharmed and alert. The Argents have Kali backed into a corner, but in the opposite, Deucalion leans against the wall, observing as Scott fights Melissa.

“Oh no,” Stiles breathes. Scott’s not just fighting Melissa. He’s fighting her from digging her claws into her own rib cage.

Something in the room snaps, and Stiles’s attention jerks to see Allison rip Kali’s pendant off.

Jennifer settles forward, grinning viciously. “Finally,” she whispers, just as Deucalion whispers something and Scott roars “Stop!”

Jennifer ignores him and throws the Argents to the side, leaving no one between her and Kali. She raises her arms—

Melissa breaks Scott’s hold and plunges a hand into her own torso—

“Wait!” Stiles grabs Jennifer, but she throws her hands forward before he can stop her. The broken windows shatter into a thousand shards that fly forward as one and pierce Kali’s body. Kali sinks to the floor, bleeding everywhere and staring at Jennifer in some sort of sorrow.

She falls, dead, and Jennifer smile grows before she coughs and clutches at her middle. “Oh,” she says, then passes out and hits the floor.  

“Now this won’t do,” Deucalion says, voice loud in the ensuing silence, and Stiles’s gaze flies back to him. Deucalion’s got his his hand wrapped around Scott’s throat.

“Scott,” Stiles chokes out, taking a step forward. Deucalion’s claws draw blood, and Stiles halts. Melissa stands beside them, peeling her hand out of her skin.

“Let us leave without interference,” Deucalion says, “Or I’ll tear his throat out.”

“Deucalion,” Chris says in his mediator voice as he gets to his feet, “Let’s—”

“Perhaps I’ll make Melissa do it instead,” Deucalion cuts him off. He walks backwards towards Stiles and the entrance, dragging Scott with him. Melissa trails after, eyes glowing yellow.

“You won’t get far,” Stiles says, and Deucalion pauses. “We’ll find you.”

“You don’t have any control here,” Deucalion purrs. He faces Stiles, and Stiles gets a good look of Scott’s terrified gaze. It makes his fists clench and his blood burn with anger. “Perhaps a demonstration is required,” Deucalion says like a goddamn Disney villain. “Melissa,” Deucalion beckons, “tear his eyes out.”

“No—” Stiles says just as Melissa sobs the same thing, her eyes flickering.

“Do it,” Deucalion growls, and Melissa steps up to Scott, shaking hands reaching for his eyes.

“Mom,” Scott chokes.

Her thumbs touch Scott’s eyelids, and she freezes, voice a cracking whisper, “Scott.”

Deucalion growls impatiently, teeth lengthening.

Her jaw tightens. “Stiles,” she orders, making his brow furrow. And then she tears off Deucalion’s pendant.

Deucalion snarls, and Stiles realizes why Melissa said his name. He twists his hand and yanks Deucalion’s fingers open. He rips his hand away from Scott’s throat before he can tear it out, and then he slams Deucalion against the wall. Deucalion fights it, body morphing into a hulking gray monster, but Stiles gathers himself and holds him aloft in the air, leaving him no purchase.

Scott and Melissa clutch at each other, and it eases something in Stiles’s chest.

“Braeden,” Deucalion demands, which, what? “Help me!”

“Not my job, boss,” says a voice from above. Everyone conscious glances up. A scarred black woman with long, wavy hair relaxes on the beam Derek’s chained to, nestled against the ceiling with an assault rifle pointed upwards. Stiles blinks. What even—

She sends Stiles a wink and nods at Derek. “I’m holding him hostage, that’s it.” She pulls out a smartphone and waves a hand at Stiles. “Carry on.”

Derek’s lips twitch upward in a smile, and that’s enough for Stiles. He turns back to Deucalion and contemplates burning him with his limited abilities, but in the end… “I like you all helpless like this.” Movement at the side makes him glance at the Argents, who advance on Deucalion. “Leave him alive.” Allison wrinkles her brow at him, so he adds, “Please.” He turns to Peter.

“Stiles,” Allison warns. “You’re not—”

He snaps back at her, returning her warning. “ _Don’t kill him_. Don’t make me stop you.” Neither she nor Chris nods in acceptance, but they don’t fight him or make a move on Deucalion, either, so he turns back to Peter and focuses on snapping the heavy padlock and unraveling the chain around his body while keeping Deucalion immobile. It’s a tricky task, dividing his attention so, but Stiles has always been good at multi-tasking.

Peter cracks his eyes open as the chains loosen, and he offers Stiles a pale smirk as he settles to the ground, knees buckling. Stiles rushes over and steadies him, grimacing at the feel of Peter’s burned skin. Deucalion struggles and dips downward in Stiles’ distraction, so Stiles snaps his arm in half with a quick gesture.

“Stiles,” Peter hums, a smile in his voice, and Stiles doesn’t know what to say. Throat tight, he swallows, staring at Peter. Peter must understand, because he takes Stiles by the back of his neck with one burned, blistered hand and leans in, breathing in deeply so that the air tickles Stiles’s throat. His other hand falls to Stiles's hip, and Stiles sags into him with a sigh. They stand there like that for the span of several shared breaths until, finally, Peter squeezes Stiles’s hip, then lets go and faces Deucalion.

“Do you really think you can handle this much power?” Deucalion asks, limbs quaking in Stiles’s hold. “Do you really think—”

“Shut up,” Peter says, and he buries his hand in Deucalion’s chest. Deucalion chokes, eyes wide with shock, and then Peter rips his beating heart out. Deucalion whimpers, the red in his eyes fading. His body goes limp and Stiles lets him fall to the floor.

Peter closes his eyes and breathes in deeply as the burns heal, leaving his skin clear and healthy like nothing ever happened. He opens his eyes, and they gleam red, sending a pang through Stiles’s chest as he remembers what Peter was like the last time this happened. But it won’t be the same as before. Everything’s changed.

Silence grips the room as Peter eyes the heart in contemplation, its blood dripping down his wrist, and Stiles tentatively asks, “You’re not gonna eat it, are you?”

Peter smiles up at him with too many teeth and crushes it in his hand. It squishes, making Stiles grimace, and Peter brushes it off his hands, letting it fall onto Deucalion’s body. He wipes the remnants off on his scorched, half-gone jeans, then advances on Stiles.

“Hey, woah, wait, you are covered in blood, do not—”

Peter takes Stiles’s face in his hands and kisses him so hard Stiles drops his bat to pull him closer. With a final nip, Peter pulls away and leans their foreheads together, and Stiles can’t look away, can’t stop breathing him in. He smells too much like ash, but he’s still Peter.

Derek clears his throat, and Stiles can practically hear him scowl. “Can someone let me down already?” he sighs, and Stiles tears his gaze away from Peter to see the assault-rifle lady —Braeden— use Derek’s chain to ninja-descend from the rafters.

“I gotcha,” she says, pulling out a key.

Stiles glances over at the Argents and finds them staring at him in a mixture of horror and confusion. Awesome. He glances at Jennifer. Her chest moves up and down, her breathing labored. “We should probably get her to a hospital.”

All of them, Shin and even Braeden, included on Derek’s dubious recommendation, (and they will be discussing his poor taste in women on a later date, no doubt about that) make it outside and through the parking lot unharried, leaving Deucalion’s remains charred beyond recognition. When they reach the underpass, one last challenge presents itself: Kali, weakened but practically foaming at the mouth, charging towards them. Stiles twists his hand and brings the massive wheel of the chairlift down on her with a creaking groan, and that’s it for her.

Peter hums in approval and tugs Stiles closer by the back of the neck. Stiles leans in even closer.

o—o—o

Stiles uses their four new passengers (Stiles, Peter, and Shin sit in the back; Melissa and Scott take the middle, and Chris and Allison keep the front; Braeden has her own car and drives Derek) as an excuse to sit pressed up to Peter the entire trip back. He scrounges up antibacterial wipes to clean the bloody handprints Peter left on his face and cleans the blood off Peter's hands as well, much to Peter’s amusement.

Melissa's long healed, thanks to her new wolfiness, but Scott still watches her like she's made of glass. The Argents make various phone calls and arrangements. Stiles’s dad is stable but still in the ICU, and Cora’s still suffering through her strange dissociative fugue thing. They drop Derek off at Deaton’s to take care of Cora and Jennifer there for Deaton to fix up, then Braeden off at a hotel, then Peter and Stiles at Peter’s apartment.

“Are you sure—?” Allison asks, but Stiles cuts her off.

“My Jeep’s here,” he says. “I just gotta pick it up.”

They both know it’s not the real truth, but Allison lets it go anyway, and the Argents take off to drop the McCalls off and wrap up business with Ri and Shin.

Stiles glances at Peter, his chest tight with an emotion he doesn’t care to identify, and Peter guides him towards the apartment building. “Wait,” Stiles says as they reach the entrance, a hysterical laugh bubbling out of his throat. “Your front door’s broken.”

“That’s a shame,” Peter says, pushing Stiles towards the entrance anyway, but Stiles steps away.

“No. I want to…. I want to be somewhere safe.”

Peter’s face flickers with understanding, and he nods.

o—o—o

When Stiles leads Peter up to his bedroom, nervousness floods his body, leaving his movements shaking. They’ve fucked before, but this feels different. It feels new.

He steps carefully into his bedroom, wringing his hands together, and Peter closes the door behind them but doesn’t push Stiles around like he should. Instead, he takes Stiles’s hands in his own and raises them to his lips. He kisses Stiles’s right index finger, then frowns. “You taste like antibacterial wipe,” he grumbles.

Stiles wants to fight a smile at this, but there’s no smile to fight. He can’t stop thinking about _What if’s_. He pulls his hands away and scrubs them over his face, tense with emotions he doesn’t want to deal with right now.

Peter waits, and Stiles spits out, “You’re not supposed to be in danger.”

Peter crosses his arms and gives Stiles a skeptical look, but he doesn’t say anything.

Stiles turns, like he wants to pace. “I didn’t —I don’t…. Fuck.” He turns back on Peter. “I don’t want to lose you. And maybe that’s what you wanted all along, maybe you’ve been planning this since you found out I had magic, but it doesn’t change how I feel, and you can’t… what happened with Deucalion, what happened to you….” Stiles trails off, his breath shuddering. “You can’t do that to me.”

Compassion and sorrow passes over Peter’s face, and Stiles just doesn’t know what to do with that. But then Peter smirks and curls a hand around Stiles’s neck, and Stiles sighs in relief, because this he can handle. Peter pulls him closer. “I’ll do my best,” he murmurs, and he presses his lips to Stiles, unbearably tender.

They peel each other’s clothes off, bodies working in tandem. Stiles fishes the lube out of the bedside drawer, and Peter pushes him down on the bed and works him over slowly, coaxing little gasps and whines out until Stiles begs for him. Stiles slides the lube over Peter’s cock and opens himself up at Peter’s command, his movements quick and efficient, letting himself moan when he hits his prostate, eyes on Peter. Peter fucks into him hard and slow, making sure Stiles feels it, and Stiles drags his hands down Peter’s back and orders him to go faster. Peter does so with a laugh, and their bodies roll together, hot and slick, their muscles rippling.

Stiles loses himself in it until, exhausted, his strength flags and Peter notices. He jacks Stiles off so that he comes fast, spilling across his torso. When Stiles sags with bliss, Peter holds him up and pounds into him until he thrusts in one final time, movement stuttering, his body shuddering in Stiles's hands.

Peter wipes them down with a tissue then curls around Stiles, pulling him close. “I need you, too,” Peter says, and Stiles lets himself fall asleep to the rise and fall of Peter’s chest against his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mom""Scott""Melissa""Stiles""Braeden" LET'S JUST SAY EACH OTHERS' NAMES DRAMATICALLY UNTIL THE ACTION'S OVER WOOHOO! (my dialogue's on point lollll)
> 
> There's probably an epilogue to tie certain things up coming. I can't decide if I want it to be a last chapter or Part 3. (I'll probably make it the last chapter, though, and Part 3 will be something completely different, I say tentatively.)
> 
> Also, man, writing action sucks. If you wanna offer any concrit on its usage in here, feel free.
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much to everyone who's commented. You all have really made this happen, because without you, I don't know if I would have had the resolve to keep going. You all are so wonderful and sweet, and I wish you the very best :) 
> 
> (I really hope you liked it.)


	20. Endgame (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles panics about feelings, Peter gives a pep talk, Lydia finally gets a mentor (srsly ffs it's about time), and a little more vengeance is had

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) From what I read, dissociative fugues almost never last for years at a time but this is a werewolf's brain we're talking about so Things Are Different  
> 2) I based the age difference between Peter and Stiles on the age difference between Ian Bohen and Dylan O'Brien, not on canon because I think that's dumb and if Dylan O'Brien was actually 16 when Stiles was 16 I wouldn't ship a damn thing.  
> 3) Lol this is like 10k wtf???  
> 4) Lol they're like so happy wtf???  
> 5) manictater, you're probably gonna hate this, sorryyyyyyyy ilu :)  
> 6) content warning for torture (i'm sure you're soooo surprised).  
> 7) you may not like this headcanon of peter. that is sad :(  
> 8) Lunesta, if you're unaware, is a medication for insomnia  
> 9) Seymour in the Little Shop of Horrors musical is (spoilers but not really) the main character who gets persuaded by his carnivorous plant to feed people to it  
> 10) If you have not watched Inception, you should  
> 11) Same goes for Daredevil

 

Stiles wakes up slow and easy, his muscles loose and languid, the sheets warm and soft against his skin. Peter’s breath fans against the crook of his neck, his arm heavy on Stiles’s waist. Stiles hesitates to open his eyes, not wanting to break the moment, so he lies there and basks instead. No one’s life is in danger —he can do that now. 

After some span of time that could be anywhere between a minute and half an hour, his internal clock not yet online, the sun shining through his eyelids ‘encourages’ him to officially wake up and open his eyes. To his surprise, Peter’s not awake and watching him, which Stiles almost finds disappointing because really, he was looking forward to mocking Peter for being creepy. This, however, is a new opportunity altogether. 

Peter’s still asleep, his face lax. It’s weird. There’s no sly curl to his lips, no calculating lines around his eyes, no threat in the set of his shoulders. He just looks… open. And his hair, usually so vainly styled, is a mess now, too, matted by the sweat of torture and the sex that followed.

Stiles carefully rolls onto his side, and despite the movement, Peter doesn’t so much as twitch. Stiles kind of likes what that might mean. He reaches out and pulls a few pesky, sweat-dried strands of hair away from Peter’s forehead. He leaves his hand there, reluctant to pull away, like Peter might disappear if he does.

Months ago, he would’ve been overjoyed if Peter disappeared so easily. But Stiles isn’t the same person he was months ago, is he? So he supposes that what his past self might think about this isn’t very important now. He wonders if Peter’s changed, too. 

It’s that thought that makes him realize he’s stroking Peter’s forehead with his thumb like a lovestruck idiot, and he freezes. Peter still doesn’t move, and Stiles doesn’t want to stop touching him. He traces the lines of Peter’s cheekbone and the arc of his brow, and he draws his index finger down the bridge of Peter’s nose. Peter’s skin is soft until Stiles reaches the unshaved bristles of his jaw, rough against Stiles’s palm. He doesn’t _feel_ inhuman, like something that could tear through Stiles’s body with a twitch of his muscles. Instead he feels vulnerable, so very much alive, and like he could use a good shower. It’s almost endearing, so endearing that Stiles leans in and presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

Peter’s lips curve upward. 

“Ha,” says Stiles, pulling back. “I knew you were awake.”

Peter opens his eyes and says, “Good morning, Stiles,” like this is a common occurrence, the edges of his eyes crinkling with his smile. 

Peter. _Smiling._ “Why are you so happy?” asks Stiles.

_Now_ Peter smirks. He tightens his arm around Stiles, pulling him closer, and buries his face in the crook of Stiles’s neck. “You woke me up so nicely,” he says. He mouths absently at Stiles’s neck, a single dry brush of his lips against Stiles’s still sleep-warm skin. He half-expects Peter to initiate gross morning-breath sex right then and there, but Peter doesn’t make any further moves after that. He closes his eyes and goes still again, breath deepening. Stiles, all lazy and warm and oh so comfortable, is absolutely okay with that.

Until he realizes he’s cuddling with Peter Hale. Again. 

“Um.”

“Quit thinking.”

“Can’t.”

Groaning in annoyance, Peter throws a leg over Stiles’s and tugs him even closer until practically half his body lies on top of Stiles. What a clingy octopus. “Go back to sleep,” Peter says.

To Stiles’s credit, he really does try. Sleeping for the rest of the day sounds awfully nice. Peter’s weight on top of him grounds him, loosening his muscles, and Stiles has no problem closing his eyes and taking deep breaths, almost dozing off, until…. “Dude, you’re heavy. I gotta breathe.”

Peter huffs and turns them over so that Stiles lies spread out on top of his naked body. “Woah,” says Stiles, ruffled from the movement. “My bed is not meant for such acrobatics,” he mutters, but he settles in anyway, scooting down and laying his head on Peter’s chest. This is… nice, he guesses. It’s a little too personal –he’s so close he can hear Peter’s heartbeat. But at the same time, it’s comforting, Peter’s very-much-aliveness loud in Stiles’s ear. 

Stiles always thought Peter’s body would feel larger under his, but while Peter’s broad and compact, he’s still an inch shorter than Stiles, and he’s no body builder. Stiles draws his palm over Peter’s chest next to his head. Peter’s firm and pleasantly warm, and as Stiles draws his hand over Peter’s shoulder and bicep, he finds he likes the contours and dips of Peter’s body under his hands. He lets his other hand drift down Peter’s rib cage, the barely-there ridges of Peter’s rib cage hard under Stiles’s fingers. He finds the softness of Peter’s waist and squeezes.

“Stiles,” Peter huffs, voice a rough mixture of annoyance and amusement. 

“Peter,” says Stiles. He grins against Peter’s skin and lifts himself up, dragging his nose up through the hair of Peter’s chest hair and mouthing at his collarbone. He holds himself up with one hand and skates the other one down Peter’s torso, letting his nails scrape gently against Peter’s skin, thumb skimming Peter’s belly button, until he reaches the curls of Peter’s groin. 

Peter grabs his hand. “This isn’t sleeping, Stiles.”

Stiles pulls his face away from Peter’s collarbone and looks down at him, happy to see his eyes wide open and watchful, a minuscule quirk to his lips.

Dipping down to Peter’s ear, Stiles says, “We’re relaxing,” and he nibbles on Peter’s earlobe. 

An amused tsk of air comes from Peter, his chest jumping with the sound, and Stiles smiles into Peter’s neck. Releasing Stiles’s hand, Peter threads his fingers through Stiles’s hair and pulls Stiles’s head back. He stares for a long moment, a moment so long that Stiles starts to think he did something wrong. He looks away, biting his lip, his fingers clenching into Peter’s abdomen. “If I, uh, if I overstepped–“

Peter huffs out another laugh, fingers loosening in Stiles’s hair. “After everything I’ve done to you, I think it’d be impossible for you to overstep.”

The muscles of Stiles’s shoulders unclench. “Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Peter smiles. “It’s….” His face turns pensive. “You have me at a loss for words.”

“Mark your calendar, I just made history.”

Peter snorts. “Come here.” He pulls Stiles’s face down to his. 

“No, wait, morning breath—mph.”  

Peter kisses him long and gently, and when they break apart he tells Stiles, “I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

Stiles lets out an amused puff of air. “Mmm, maybe it was all the manipulation and months of careful planning.”

“Oh, there was that, wasn’t there?” Peter asks. He grabs Stiles’s hips and grinds their half-hard cocks together, brow furrowed in faux concern. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Stiles grinds down harder and gives Peter a look. “You’re doing it again.”

Peter takes their cocks in hand and tugs, making Stiles jerk into him. “Am not.”

Stiles braces his hands on each side of Peter’s head and leans into him, nerves ablaze as Peter sets up a rhythm. “Are, too,” he whispers against Peter’s lips.

Smile crinkles at the corners of his eyes, Peter leans up and presses their lips together. “Only a little.”

“Well, hurry up,” Stiles says, shoving into Peter’s hand, “and ‘manipulate’ me a little faster.”

Peter speeds up the pace, adding a light twist to the end of each stroke, and tips Stiles’s chin down. “Anything for you, sweetheart,” he says, pulling Stiles in for another kiss.

 

o—o—o

 

Peter leans in the doorway, watching as Stiles whisks the pancake batter with one hand and braces the mixing bowl with his other hand, his phone tucked between his ear and shoulder. “I’m not lying, Dad,” he says into the phone. “I made it through without a scratch. Cross my heart.”

Peter tunes out the other end of the conversation, the Sheriff’s exasperated concern and the tiny smile on Stiles’s face enough to tell Peter all is well on their end. The arch of Stiles’s neck warrants more of Peter’s attention, the stretch of his tendon an easy target for Peter’s teeth. The bridge of his tense shoulders, lopsided from holding the phone, begs for Peter’s claws, and Peter wants to draw Stiles in, to engulf him and wall him off from the rest of the world.

But Stiles would never allow that. Not for long, at least. He’d enjoy it for a brief while, maybe a day, maybe several years if Peter pulled the right strings, but then he’d break. He’d tear through Peter’s hold and burn Peter from the inside out with a beautiful viciousness born of betrayal, and Peter would love him for it until his last breath. 

But it wouldn’t be enough, not when they can be so much more. Stiles is a fragile deception, a smoldering star masquerading as the moon, and Peter is his shadow. He never expected to find himself in this position, beholden to a boy just coming into his prime, but he finds himself content for the first time since before the fire. This may not be exactly what he planned, but he’s always been flexible. Now that he has this dance with Stiles, he won’t let it go. 

Peter sees it coming in the tightening of Stiles’s shoulder, a useless attempt to clamp down on the phone. “Wait, shit—“ Stiles’s shoulders tremble, and the phone slips into Peter’s waiting hand. 

“Stiles!” comes the panicked, tinny voice of the Sheriff from the phone. “Stiles?” Peter hands the phone to Stiles. 

“Thanks,” the kid mumbles, attention already back on the pancake mix and his father as he brings the phone back up to his ear. “It’s fine, Dad. Almost dropped the phone is all.”

Peter smiles and wraps his arms around Stiles, hooking his chin over Stiles’s free shoulder. 

“Is someone else there?” asks the Sheriff. 

Stiles doesn’t so much stiffen as simply stop moving, and Peter presses an open-mouthed kiss to his neck to see what he’ll do. 

Surprisingly, Stiles jumps back into motion. “Nope, just talking to myself, what else is new.” Peter nips and sucks, pleased when Stiles clears his throat. “So I’m thinking of bringing you a home-made salad.” Peter licks a line up Stiles’s tendon, and Stiles sets the bowl down to cover the phone mic and hiss, “What are you? A dog?” 

Cute. “Whoof,” Peter says, leaning back.

Stiles rolls his eyes and uncovers the phone. He says back into it, leaning against the counter, “Technically, it’s not allowed, but I can totally sneak it in. You want pecans again?”

“Stiles, is that Peter with you?” asks the Sheriff, tone flat.

Peter tilts his head as he watches Stiles dither, his heart racing and fingers aflutter. Peter very much wants to suck on those fingers, but the Sheriff’s awareness warrants some concern. So he nudges Stiles aside and, like the helpful, well-behaved partner he’ll never be, he spoons a quarter cup of well-mixed pancake batter into the hot griddle sitting ready on the stovetop.

“Ha ha, no, of course not, _why_ would I ever have Peter over for breakfast? Like, no way would that ever be a thing. Come on, Dad.”

Peter glances at Stiles, faux-askance, and lifts an eyebrow. Stiles shrugs unapologetically, and Peter scoops another quarter cup of batter into the middle of the griddle, smiling to himself. Stiles digs himself into so many holes, it’s amazing how often he manages to crawl back out of them. 

Too much silence comes from the Sheriff’s end of the line, and Stiles finally sighs. “Okay, yes, Peter’s here. Worry not, dear Father, nothing untoward’s happening. It’s all cool.”

“ _Untoward_?” the Sheriff growls, and if he were a wolf, Peter might be significantly worried. 

“Uh….” Stiles stalls, a blush rising to his cheeks. Then, he says in a rush, “Well, I mean, it’s not like he’s eating any bunnies or squirrels, you know. He’s just taking up space on the couch and criticizing my taste in movies.”

Stiles is so adorable when he lies. 

The Sheriff sighs. “Okay, fine. Why is he even over in the first place?”

“I saved his life yesterday, Dad. He’s my damsel in distress, my responsibility, you know? I’ve gotta make sure no more bad guys take him hostage and torture his precious soul again.”

Peter gives Stiles a look, mouthing ‘precious soul?’

Stiles grins, and in response Peter flashes his eyes and snaps his canines at him.  

“Stiles, this is not a good idea,” the Sheriff says. 

“Probably not,” Stiles agrees. 

“Stiles, kid…” The Sheriff trails off in resignation, and Stiles’s brow furrows in thought, the smile lines fading from his face, leaving Peter with a vague sense of loss and annoyance. He scoops one more quarter cup of batter into the open space left on the griddle. “Be careful, okay?” the Sheriff finally asks.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, the word quiet with contemplation. “I will.” They share a few more platitudes that remind Peter he needs to visit Cora (the poor mess), and then Stiles hangs up and watches Peter. Peter waits. 

Stiles swallows, and Peter makes sure to keep his face clear of expression.

“I still owe you,” Stiles says at last. “Twice over.”

“Once,” Peter corrects, feeling magnanimous. Stiles moves his head in confusion, and Peter tosses him a grin. “I’d say saving my life counts as a pretty big favor, don’t you think?”

Stiles looks away, body looking inexplicably small. “Saving your life wasn’t a favor, Peter,” he murmurs, almost sullen, and oh, isn’t he perfect? 

Peter turns and cages Stiles in, bracing his hands against the counter on Stiles’s sides. He stares at him, taking in each freckle and mole, the soft spread of his parted lips, all the ground down fear in those warm brown eyes. 

He remembers the addictive, metallic tang of revenge on his tongue, and he imagines having it again. It’s tempting. So tempting. But then he imagines what could go wrong, imagines Stiles losing his voice to the raw screams of agony, imagines Stiles scratching cuts into his own arms while that metallic taste sits on Peter’s tongue. His claws threaten to unsheathe themselves. 

He leans in, knowing he’s taking a risk. But not too much of a risk. Stiles needs Peter just as much as Peter needs him, and it’s that knowledge that lets Peter say, “You don’t owe me anything, Stiles. Not anymore.” He presses his lips against Stiles’s, and Stiles sinks into it for a moment before pulling away.

“But we made a deal,” Stiles says like he can’t believe this is happening, and Peter can’t have that. 

“We did,” he says. “But it wasn’t a very fair deal, I think you’ll agree, and I’ve changed my mind.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Why? What were you going to ask me to do?”

Knowing Stiles, if Peter tells him what he’d planned, Stiles will go ahead and do it anyway just to prove he can, the stupid boy. “It doesn’t matter,” Peter tells him. Suspicion and disbelief rolls off Stiles in waves, and Peter rolls his eyes. “But if it makes you feel better,” he drawls, “you can finish these pancakes, make some of that disgusting turkey bacon I smell in the fridge, and share breakfast with me. And we’ll consider it all a favor paid.”

Stiles stares at him. “That’s it? One breakfast?”

Peter nods slowly. Sometimes Stiles can be so smart, but sometimes he can be _so_ stupid.

“How do I know you won’t turn around one day and change your mind?”

Peter can’t help it. He smirks. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

Fear, adrenaline and arousal wafts off Stiles, but he seems to push it away. “What do you get out of this?”

_You. Alive and well and_ whole, Peter thinks, but of course, he can’t say that. “Less distrust from you. Maybe some more fun.” He glances at the pancakes, now burning on the bottom. “As well as a delicious, nutritious breakfast.” He grabs the spatula Stiles laid out earlier and flips the first pancake before glancing at Stiles, “That is, if you don’t let these all burn.”

Stiles grunts in annoyance. “Fine. Gimme.” He steals the spatula from Peter’s hand and pushes Peter out of the way. “But if you turn around some day and say you’ve changed your mind, don’t expect anything from me. No takebacks.”

Peter wraps his arms around Stiles’s middle from behind and tucks his face into the crook of Stiles’s neck. He smells like salt, blood, and the stinging mint of the cheap bodywash Peter rubbed into his shoulders. “Of course, sweetheart,” Peter says into his throat.

Though Stiles makes no outward show of reaction, arousal wafts off his warm skin, the uptick in his pulse heavy under Peter’s lips, and Peter breathes it in, muscles loosening. He smirks, lips catching on the curve of Stiles’s muscle. “You like being called sweetheart, don’t you?”

“Do not,” Stiles grumbles, heartbeat skipping and lips twitching upward. He transfers a pancake over to the serving plate on the counter. 

“Oh? So you have a different preference then,” Peter decides. He presses a kiss to Stiles’s neck. “Is it darling?” A kiss to the middle of his neck. “Baby?” A kiss beneath the ear that makes Stiles shiver under Peter’s hands. He hums, sucking on Stiles’s skin. “Love?” he asks with a nip at Stiles’s earlobe that makes Stiles twitch.

“I just threw up in my mouth.” Stiles flips the second finished pancake onto the plate with a pointed smack. 

Peter laughs gently. “Sorry for upsetting you, pet.” He nuzzles into Stiles’s throat, the boy’s rabbiting heartbeat and musky arousal making his teeth ache. Stiles’s response pleases him to no end. If he wants to be lavished with praise, Peter is more than willing to provide, especially given the potential rewards.

Pulse slowing and arousal dissipating (unfortunately), Stiles twists around in his arms, a pensive look on his face. “You’re forgiven,” he says, and Peter knows he’s talking about something else entirely. 

The idea of needing or wanting forgiveness is ludicrous to Peter. Forgiveness is a concept for the righteous and ridiculously moral people like Scott, not for the likes of Peter. But the way Stiles looks at him plants something light and vulnerable in his chest all the same. If he were a better man, he’d leave. He’d tell Stiles to forget about him and find someone who can love him with the purity he’s no doubt romanticized about. But luckily for them both, Peter has never been a good man. “For everything?” he asks.

Stiles gives him a one-shoulder shrug. “Maybe.” His eyes flick down to the hollow of Peter’s throat. “I’m still not sure what to make of you choking me,” he says, voice distant, his neck slightly too bowed, his shoulders slightly too drawn inward, and his hands tense at his sides.

At the time, Peter had been trying to bring Stiles back down from the shock and guilt of his moral crisis. He’d been trying to force Stiles to see his own delicate mortality. And to some extent, he had wanted Stiles to be afraid of acting outside Peter’s influence. But Peter doesn’t want Stiles to be afraid of him now. Peter wants him to be afraid of what Peter can do _for_ him, but not _to_ him. And after all, there are always other ways to prove a point. “I won’t do it again,” Peter says at last.

Stiles looks up, vulnerable and more transparent than he thinks, and Peter wants to preserve this moment forever because Stiles’s eyes should _always_ be on his like this. “Okay,” Stiles murmurs.

Peter grins and cups Stiles’s face. “I’ll check with you first next time,” he promises. 

“Peter,” Stiles says with a scowl, and Peter can feel his grin stretching. Stiles pushes him away. “Go sit down, you creep.” 

 

o—o—o

 

 

Peter’s wallet and phone are presumably lost somewhere inside his apartment, unless Deucalion and co. decided to steal them for some reason, so Stiles ends up purchasing the protein-packed sandwich and milkshake Peter demands before they visit Cora. “You’re paying me back for this,” Stiles says for the third time. He’s not made of money after all, and it’s not like the supernatural world allows himself much time for an after-school job. 

Peter looks so done. “I’ll buy you the whole sandwich shop if you shut up about it.”

Stiles side-eyes him. “How much money do you even have?”

With a toothy grin, Peter says, “Enough to make you happy as you please, sweetheart.”

“Uh… did you just—?” Stiles splutters and glues his eyes to the road, his face heating up, “That is, that is not what I was suggesting, but okay.” And this is so —scary? Stiles and his dad’ll have hospital bills they can’t pay for his dad’s current stay, even with Beacon Hills’ abnormally expensive insurance, and to have Peter make it all disappear seems too good to be true. Then again, Peter’s practically Stiles’s murder mentor already. Him being Stiles’s sugar daddy instead should seem tame in comparison. ( _Should_ being the key word in that statement.) “Right,” Stiles says, a little breathless as he tries to get his bearings. He can _feel_ Peter smirking beside him, so he cuts him off before he can open his damn mouth. “But like, where do you even get all this money? The hospital must’ve sucked most of your insurance dry, right?”

The atmosphere in the car darkens, but Peter doesn’t seem too upset about it. “The hospital didn’t leave much, no, but my hobbies are rather lucrative on their own,” he says with a too innocent lilt to his voice.

Stiles takes the bait. “Yeah, what are they? Stocks?” he asks scornfully. He remembers Peter working on them once. It looked boring, or maybe like one of those activities Stiles might obsess over for a few days without receiving any actual satisfaction.

“Stocks, yes.” Peter’s lips quirk up. “And art theft.”

“Whoa, really?” That sounds so cool! Not that he’ll let Peter know that. 

Judging by Peter’s grin, he knows anyway. “I’m getting back into it. You could join me sometime, if you like.”

Stiles’s hands clench and unclench around the wheel. First Peter gives him a free pass on his debts; now he’s offering money and a cool new (albeit illegal) job opportunity. Is he possessed? “Okay, look, I know I saved your life," Stiles says, "but don’t you think you’re kinda going overboard with the gratitude? What do you expect you’ll get out of this?” Stiles doesn’t look at Peter when he speaks, afraid of what he’ll see. 

But Peter’s voice, warm and soft and terrifying, says enough. “You.”

_Oh, no no no_ , Stiles thinks as he pulls into the parking lot for Deaton’s clinic. Once around this merry-go-round was more than enough. They don’t need to do it again. “You mean Beacon Hills. Beacon Hills through me. Like you said before.”

“Mmm, no.”

Stiles parks the Jeep and throws an arm across the seats to brace himself as he faces Peter. “What do you mean, no?”

Peter sits loose and relaxed in his seat, his eyes rapt on Stiles. “Beacon Hills is still in my plans of course, but what I want is you. You’re clever and loyal, and so ruthlessly violent when pushed.” He doesn’t lean forward and touch Stiles, doesn’t smirk or smile at Stiles like he wants to eat him. Sitting back in his seat like he's said this before, Peter says it like it’s simple fact. “You’re perfect.” Stiles feels like he's been cut loose, his face heating up and heart fluttering. He doesn't know what to do when Peter smiles and says, “You’re my endgame, Stiles.”

“Uh,” Stiles falters, eyes flitting away from Peter and back, not sure where to look. Should he compliment Peter back and inflate his ego past the point of no return? (No.) Should he run away? (No. Peter would probably chase him down.) Should he throw himself at Peter and make out? (Yes. No. Yes? No.) “I, uh, that’s, that’s wow. That’s… nice.”

Brilliant. 

Peter’s smile turns wolfish, like he wants to pounce on Stiles and fuck in the back seat again, which in Deaton’s parking lot? Weirdly hot but also, no. “You’re also adorable when you’re flustered,” Peter tells him.

_God_.

Stiles may be really… attached, to Peter, but he is so not ready for this crazy level of commitment. And he could say something like “Hey, I’m only seventeen. Will you really still want me when I’m no longer a piece of vulnerable, hormonal jailbait?” or “Will you drop me if I lose all my magic?” But that would involve confronting his insecurities, so no thank you. “We should go check on Cora,” he garbles out, and Peter keeps smiling even as he gets out of the car. 

His smile is terrifying, as usual, so Stiles ignores it and speed-walks to Deaton's office.

They find Derek waiting at the front door for them, leveling a pained glare (although the glare may just be his default face when it comes to Peter) at them as he ushers them in. "Thank God you're here," he sighs in Peter's direction, which, wow, that's a first.

Peter looks like he thinks the same thing. He lifts an eyebrow at Derek and says, “I haven’t heard that in a long time.” Derek’s face draws taut.

They stop at the open mountain ash gate leading to the backroom and Derek’s eyes flit over Stiles indecipherably before they land back on Peter. "She still won't remember who she his," he says to Peter, "and now she's not talking to me. I was hoping you could figure it out."

So Peter's skill in manipulation and mind games finally comes in handy. Stiles almost smiles.

"I'll talk to her," Peter says. He walks into the backroom, nodding for Derek to follow, and after a moment of hesitation, Stiles opts to stay back. 

The rifle-lady Deucalion hired, Braeden, lounges across the three chairs in the waiting area, playing on her phone. She glances up at Stiles and scoots her legs back, freeing up the third chair. Stiles takes it and pulls out his own phone in hopes of stifling the awkward silence. 

It doesn't really work. A few minutes later, he asks, "So you and Derek?"

She doesn't look up from her phone. "What about me and Derek?"

Stiles sets his phone down in his lap and looks at her. If she were Jennifer, she'd be emoting extensively, playing victim to Stiles's beginning interrogation. And Stiles doesn't know what Kate was like when she was seducing Derek, but he can guess. She'd probably be playful and condescending right now. "Be careful with him."

Braeden lifts a sardonic eyebrow at him. "Should I treat him like glass?"

Stiles scowls. "No, but..." How much should he say? "He's been betrayed and used way too many times—” Derek's probably listening right now. Stiles is so getting thrown into a wall again. “—and if you're the next to do it, I'll find out. And I’ll—" What will he do? "I'll do something awful. I don't know what it'll be yet, but I'll figure it out."

She stops playing on her phone and looks at him, lips curling upward. She reminds him of Peter. "You're just a teenager," she says neutrally.

"A teenager who's killed three people," Stiles clarifies.

She smiles at him, slow and lazy. "I'm a mercenary. Three is nothing to me, kid."

"And if someone hires you to kill Derek?"

She shrugs. "I don't take jobs when I've had a personal relationship with the mark."

"Oh, great, you have a personal code. That's reassuring."

She shrugs.

Stiles kind of likes her. Kind of.

 

o—o—o

 

 

Peter had had his suspicions about Cora. Miraculously appearing after missing for six plus years with no record of where she’d been — it seemed _more_ than suspicious. Her reluctance to talk about it didn’t help ease his worries, either. But just because Peter was suspicious of her didn’t mean he didn’t like her, and now, with her current dissociation confirming her explanation for her past absence, Peter finds himself liking her even more. She’s less of a threat than he suspected she might be, and that fills him with relief. 

While Derek stands back against the door like a guard dog, Peter settles himself in front of Cora, blocking her exciting view of the wall from where she sits on the exam table, back to the door. He sets the sandwich and milkshake down for Cora. "For when you're hungry," he says by way of greeting. Her gaze remains distant. ”Derek wants me to fix you," he says after a moment. "But you don't need to be fixed, do you?" Her eyes meet his, but she doesn't say anything. That's alright. "We all deal with trauma in different ways, although we Hales do seem to have a certain fondness for avoidance,” he says with no small amount of amusement.

Her heartbeat speeds up. As does Derek's, but Peter doesn't particularly care about him at the moment. 

"After the fire, Derek and Laura ran all the way to New York,” Peter continues, and Derek reeks with shame. Oh, Derek. "And I went into a coma for six years, mostly because of all the burns, but also, I'm afraid to admit, because of how it felt to lose all of you. That includes you, you have to know,” he tells her. “I thought I'd gotten you out too late. You weren’t breathing when I…." He inhales deeply. "I kept wondering, if I’d only been a little faster.” Derek sucks in a breath. Peter had never told him that. He’d probably thought Peter had just run, and now he feels even guiltier. Good. 

Peter keeps his eyes on Cora. “But I didn’t lose you back then, it seems. You only lost yourself. Like you have now," he says. Anxiety wafts off her now, souring the air. Peter doesn't like it, but he thinks it means he's making progress. "And that's okay. I'm glad, Cora." She furrows her brow in confusion, so Peter explains. "I'm glad you're alive. I'm glad you found a way to escape the pain, however brief, even if it means you forgot yourself. And I want you to know it's fine if you don't remember who you are now." Her breath hitches, so Peter hammers in the nail. "There's nothing wrong with you. I'm just glad you're here, and I'm sorry I was part of what brought this on in the first place." 

It's not a feeling he's accustomed to, but he is sorry. He knows he should have taken better precautions against the alphas. Stiles had told him how they'd found Cora, staring at the blood on his wall. She didn't deserve that. "Even if you don't remember who you are, you'll always have a place with us," he says.

She sighs and looks away, her anxiety shifting into agitation. She runs a hand through her hair, and Peter begins to wonder. He glances at Derek and receives a furrowed brow in response.

"I do remember who I am," Cora finally says, hopping off the table. "I just..." She wanders past Peter and looks out the tiny window. She paces between him and the counter. "One moment it was daytime and I was walking up the stairs to your apartment, the next it was morning and I was here." She leans back against the counter and looks at Peter, despair in her eyes. "The last time that happened, I lost years." 

Peter's chest tightens. He used to lose himself for months at a time, drifting in and out as his muscles and bones wove themselves back together. "I'm sorry. I wish I could make it better, but all I can suggest is finding you a good therapist."

She offers him a pale grin. "I'll go if you go."

He grins back. "That's my girl," he says, and he knows that even though they're not okay (none of the three remaining Hales will ever be completely "okay"), they're alive. Their family will go on, and Peter will lay the world at their feet.

When they walk out, Stiles is in the middle of asking Braeden, "But why was Derek there? Did Deucalion want Scott to torture him next? Or did he think killing Peter would magically convince Derek to join him?"

Braeden shrugs, but Peter's already figured it out. "He was saving Derek for Melissa," he says. "He'd break the McCalls by getting Scott to kill me, and then he'd make Melissa kill Derek. If all went well, he'd have two alphas to replace the twins."

Stiles screws up his face in displeasure and stands up, stretching and grimacing. "I'm really glad we killed him," he yawns. Peter eyes the pale skin of his midriff revealed by his shirt rising up. He's so bitable. 

Footsteps echo behind them, and Peter turns around to see Deaton in the doorway of the backroom, wiping his hands off with a rag and smelling like cat piss. "All's well then?" he asks. "Cora?"

"I'll be okay," she says.

"Excellent," says Deaton, ever the professional. "Stiles?"

Stiles remains where he is, suspicious. "What?"

"I'm free Wednesday evenings if you'd like to study with me." And isn't that interesting? Peter will have to keep an eye on this new development.

Stiles's mouth falls open, as it is so wont to do. It drives Peter crazy. "Really? Wow. Yes, I mean. Yes. Wednesday," Stiles says. "I'll be there. Here. Yep." He pops the 'p' at the end, and Peter shakes his head and steps over to him to usher him out before he can ramble any further. 

 

o—o—o

 

Peter offers to let Stiles stay at his apartment for as long as he likes, but Stiles, agonizing over his feelings, turns him down by rambling out excuses about his schoolwork and his father and a dozen other topics. He can tell Peter doesn't buy it, but what is Stiles supposed to say? He likes Peter more than he liked _Lydia_ , and Peter actually reciprocates. To a terrifying extent even. Also, Peter is Peter, but Stiles doesn't take as much issue with that as he knows he should.

So he finds himself lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling until he can't take it anymore and surfs the web. Somehow he ends up reading articles about the mining of bat guano.

With winter break and final exams approaching, Stiles spends the next week catching up on schoolwork and staving off sleep deprivation. He misses Peter's warm body tangled with his at night, which is ridiculous since they've only actually slept together twice. And he wants to contact Peter, really, he does, but without any emergency to use as an excuse, he doesn't think he should.

With Deaton teaching him now (Stiles just learned how to store energy in gemstones, so that's cool), he doesn't even have Peter's books as an excuse to visit him, either. 

He craves Peter's company, and it's ridiculous. 

When he finally crashes out of exhaustion Friday night, he dreams of Peter strung up and burning. His scorched body twists and contorts, its charred skin peeling off, then goes still, too damaged to heal, and Stiles is trapped as he watches, unable to move. He wakes with a start, heart racing, and snatches his phone off his bedside table. 

Peter picks up on the third ring. "Stiles?" 

"Peter?" Stiles nearly sobs in relief. 

"What's wrong?"

“I—" Stiles stalls as rationality returns. He swallows. "Nothing. I had a, a bad feeling is all," he mumbles, rubbing his eyes. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay." He sounds so stupid. 

There's a pause on Peter's end as he considers. "Do you want me to come over?"

Oh God. "No," Stiles says, voice a little too high. "No, that's fine."

"Would you rather come over here?"

"Nope, I'm good. Just checking in is all. Good talk. G'night, Peter!" Stiles is totally not freaking out.

“Stiles—" 

Stiles hangs up and stares wide-eyed at his ceiling. It would be nice if some new monster attacked the town right now. That would be a good distraction. 

He'd really rather not have any more nightmares, and when there's one, many are sure to follow, so he migrates over to his computer to do something unproductive. Some ungodly hour later, something taps on his window. He ignores it, but when the tapping continues without any sign of stopping, he resigns himself and turns around. 

It's Peter. What a shock. 

"Creep," he says as he gets up. He lets Peter in. "You didn't have to come over," he grumbles, crossing his arms. 

Peter looks him up and down, like he's searching for any broken bones Stiles might be trying to conceal. "I could practically smell your panic from across town." He glances at the computer, then back to Stiles. "Nightmares?"

Is Stiles really that easy to read? "No," he sulks. 

Peter gives him a look. "You look like the first half of a Lunesta commercial."

"Thanks," Stiles says dryly. What an ego boost. 

Peter rolls his eyes. "Turn off the computer. Then come to bed." He strips off his shirt, and Stiles hastily closes the blinds so that none of his nosy neighbors see.

He makes no move to shut down the computer, though. "What if I say no?" 

Peter toes off his shoes and starts pulling his jeans off. He glances at Stiles. "Then I'll wait until you fall asleep out of exhaustion and carry you to bed myself." He makes himself at home on the window-side of Stiles's bed, crossing his ankles. He gestures airily. "Your choice."

Stiles hesitates. He really is tired, and Peter is right where he wants him, even if Stiles doesn't want to want him there. It's just one night. 

He swallows and shuts down his computer, then lies down in bed. He tries to be careful about it and not touch Peter, but he's not the most graceful person ever and it's a small bed. He ends up with his ankle hooked over Peter's and his forearm smashed against Peter's ribcage. Peter snorts and turns onto his side so that he can curl his arm over Stiles's middle. With his body heat soaking into Stiles, Stiles can't help but relax into it. 

 

o—o—o

 

Stiles sprawls out sideways on the end of Scott’s bed and blows a dust speck away from his face. “I still don’t trust her,” he says to the ceiling. 

Scott nudges Stiles’s side with his foot, almost pushing Stiles off the bed. “You don’t trust anyone,” he says. 

Stiles sits up and shoves Scott’s foot away. “Yeah, well, I just wanna make sure she’s _actually_ helping you.” Morell’s background is sketchy at best, but she’s the only therapist/counselor/psychologist-type person they know who’s aware of the supernatural, and after everything Scott’s been through, he _needs_ someone to help him sort it all out. And unfortunately Stiles isn’t cut out for that sort of work.

“She is,” Scott says, voice soft, and Stiles leans forward, his elbow digging into his thigh and his face resting on his hand. Scott looks vulnerable and terribly old, his face heavy with sadness and loss. It’s not right. “It’s good to talk about it,” Scott murmurs. 

“Scott,” Stiles says, throat tight. He’s not sure what to say. “Are you—?” Of course he’s not okay, why would Stiles even consider asking that? “I’m sorry—“

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Scott snaps at him, terribly earnest. “You saved me. And even if I don’t necessarily approve of your methods—“ ( _ugh_ , Stiles thinks) “—you still saved me. I couldn’t ask for a better friend. I’ll be okay, Stiles.”

Stiles smiles, and his eyes are totally not tearing up, okay? They just feel a little hot. 

Scott’s face turns pensive and concerned. “Are _you_? Are you okay, I mean?” 

Stiles almost laughs. “Yeah, totally.”

Scott gives him a look, and that’s all it takes for Stiles to crack. “Ughhhh, Scott.”

Scott screws up his face. “What?”

“I don’t know what to do,” Stiles whines, flopping forwards, facedown into the bed besides Scott. 

Scott’s voice sounds torn between laughter and horror. “You’ve only ever sounded like this when you used to talk about Lydia.”

Stiles groans again. “Everything is awful. I need to break into my dad’s whiskey stash again.”

There’s a moment of silence that makes Stiles tense, and then Scott says, “I saw you kiss Peter. In the ski lodge.” 

Stiles groans again and shoves his face into the comforter.

“He’s, like, twenty years older than you.”

Stiles turns his head to the side and gets a nice view of Scott’s (thankfully clothed) butt cheek. “Fifteen. I broke into his hospital records. And really, I think the six years in a coma kinda fucks up his age.”

Scott huffs out a laugh before he sobers up again. “He killed a lot of people.”

“I know,” Stiles says.

“He bit me,” Scott says, voice soft.

Stiles sighs. “I know. If that—” He swallows. “If that bothers you too much, I’ll stay away from him.”

“Does he make you happy?”

Peter makes Stiles laugh. He makes Stiles feel warm and valued. His creepiness is oddly endearing. He drags Stiles out of his brooding agitation and makes him remember how to smile, and in recent events that seems like most of Stiles’s life. And maybe Stiles really is a little crazy himself at this point, but, “Yeah,” Stiles says.

“Do you trust him?”

Stiles doesn’t have to think about that. “Yeah,” he says. “God help me.”

“Do you like who you are when you’re with him?”

And maybe Stiles has become a murderer (with no small help from Peter, too), but Peter makes him feel strong, like he can take on the world and keep his loved ones safe. Like he’s not helpless anymore. And in Beacon Hills? Stiles needs that. He takes a deep breath. “Yeah.”

“Then maybe,” Scott says, hesitating. “Maybe you shouldn’t fight this. It sounds like he’s good for you, in his own way, and you deserve someone who’s good for you.”

Stiles sits up and squints at Scott. “This? Coming from you?”

Scott shrugs and looks away. “When you’re forced to torture someone for hours, it kinda changes your perspective on things.” He looks back up at Stiles. “Peter’s a werewolf who came back from the dead, but he’s still just a man.”

This conversation’s getting too heavy. “It’s literally illegal for us to fuck right now.”

“Ew,” Scott says, making a face before he says, “Like you’ve never done anything illegal before. Also, please don’t tell me about your sex life.”

Stiles grins. “After all your sexcapades with Allison? Please. You’re gonna hear all about it.”

Scott cringes. 

 

o—o—o

 

“I need to make this thing,” Stiles tells Deaton.

Deaton peers at the book Stiles holds out to him. “You’re still learning the basics—“

“Teach me the basics by teaching me to make this thing.”

Deaton sighs, probably regretting his life choices.

 

o—o—o

 

“I thought you were avoiding me,” Peter says, barring his apartment entrance with an arm across the doorway.

“I was,” says Stiles, unashamed. “Now I’m not.”

Peter stares at him, unimpressed. 

“I had stuff to do and things to think about, okay? Will you let me in or not?”

Peter half-rolls his eyes and walks back into his apartment. Stiles follows him in, sweaty fist clenched in his pocket. Peter sits in the loveseat and throws his arm over the back. His silent stare unnerving, he seems to be waiting for Stiles to continue, so Stiles perches on the arm of the couch across from him. He feels horribly awkward. “So do you —are we…?” He glances down at the chess board, stricken, before looking back up at Peter. He should say more, but he’s new to this, okay?

Peter lifts an eyebrow.

Mouth dry, Stiles swallows and licks his lips. “Are we in a relationship?” he asks, and _ugh_ , he’s _dying_.

Peter’s lips curl into that amused smirk of his. “Do you want to be?”

Stiles nods jerkily.

Peter’s smirk grows, and he prowls lazily over to Stiles. Tipping Stiles’s face up, he leans in. “Then we are,” he says, and he kisses Stiles breathless.

When they pull apart, Stiles looks down, breathing hard, and pulls his fist out of his pocket. “I, uh, made this…” He opens his fist, revealing a small pendant. It’s a deep blue-green, coin-like circle, its surface cool and smooth like polished stone, but within it ripples like the water in a slow river. Stiles shoves it forward, and Peter steps back to get a closer look. He wraps his fingers over the back of Stiles’s hand. “It’s for you,” Stiles mumbles. 

Peter looks up from the pendant, inhaling slowly and tilting his chin up slightly. He looks at Stiles like he’s something new and fascinating, which is ridiculous after all they’ve been through. Stiles is still Stiles. He’s not someone new. “What’s it do?” Peter asks.

Stiles swallows. “You know the pendants Deucalion and Kali had?” Peter nods. “It’s kinda like that,” Stiles explains. “Except it doesn’t block all magic from affecting you. It just…” he looks down at the chessboard and mumbles, “stops you from being burned alive again.” 

Peter tilts Stiles’s chin up again, and Stiles gets the wind knocked out of him by a blinding smile that's not smirk-like at all, what the hell. It’s gross and perfect and _God_ , Stiles is so far gone. “Put it on for me,” Peter says, and Stiles nods wordlessly. Peter bows his neck, and Stiles loops the cord over his head. His fingers brush the sides of Peter’s throat. It’s interesting, seeing the pendant Stiles made around Peter’s neck. It feels right, like it’s saying, “Stiles’s Peter: Do Not Burn.”

Feeling brave, Stiles slips off the couch into Peter’s space and loops his arms over Peter’s neck. Their bodies lining up together, Stiles presses his own kiss to Peter’s lips and tangles his fingers in his hair, basking in the slow, easy heat of Peter's mouth. Peter trails his hands down Stiles’s back and pushes closer until Stiles lets himself fall backwards over the arm of the couch, laughing. 

Peter grins down at him and crawls on top of him, and they spend God-knows-how-long lying there, making out. It’s warm and soft, their bodies moving languidly together, hands exploring each other’s skin like it’s the first time they've touched, their lips moving lazily. There’s no immediacy, no impatient grappling with each other. Sex is just an after-thought, something they might do hours later or not at all. What matters is them, one and together. They’re two fucked up messes, and they’ll continue to be two fucked up messes together for as long as they can. 

Some time later when Stiles is dozing on top of Peter, someone knocks on the door. Peter inhales deeply through his nose, and Stiles lifts himself up enough to see Peter looking vaguely concerned. “Who is it?” Stiles murmurs.

Peter pushes at Stiles’s shoulders, and Stiles gets to his feet, Peter quickly following. “An old friend,” Peter says, brushing himself off and running his fingers through his hair in a vain attempt to fix it. 

“A dangerous old friend?” Stiles asks, stepping aside so Peter can walk over to the door.

“Doubtful,” Peter says, and then he opens the door. A petite woman probably in her thirties stands there with her arms crossed, glaring at Peter. Her skin’s a deep tan bordering on brown, her lips full, face sprinkled with freckles, and her hair springs out in a veritable mane of tight auburn curls. “Mariah,” Peter purrs. “You’re late.”

Her frown deepens. “I’d be on time if you were dead.” She speaks with a slight Irish accent, a musical cadence-like quality to her voice.

Stiles can’t see Peter’s face from behind, but he can see him tilt his head. “True,” Peter says after a moment of consideration. His voice deepens. “I’m glad you came, all the same.” He steps aside, gesturing for her to enter. 

She smiles, and Stiles gets a glimpse of thinly veiled surprise on Peter’s face before she sweeps in for a hug. Peter hugs her back, his size dwarfing her. _Weird_ , Stiles thinks. “I’ve missed you, Peter,” she says. 

Peter squeezes her and pulls away. “You, too.”

Stiles shifts on his feet, wondering if he should leave, and apparently this catches Mariah’s attention. She glances between him and Peter, accusation on her face. “Are you screwing a teenager?” she whispers to Peter, but Stiles can still hear her, barely. He’s not sure whether or not to laugh. 

Peter makes a too innocent face and shrugs. 

“Oh my God!” she says, shoving him. “What the hell, Peter?” She looks back at Stiles, wide-eyed. “Are you okay?”

Stiles isn’t sure how to respond to this. He glances at Peter, confused, and doesn’t receive any help. “Yes?” he tells her, and she turns an even more accusatory look on Peter. 

Peter grins and gestures between them. “Stiles, Mariah. Mariah, Stiles.” He leans against the bar making up the wall of the kitchen and looks at Stiles. “Remember when I mentioned calling old friends for backup? This is one of them.”

Stiles perches back on the arm of the couch to face them, looking Mariah over. She seems like a normal, sane human being, not that appearances can really be that revelatory. “So he really does have friends?” he asks her.

She looks oddly serious. “Well, he has me.” She narrows her eyes at Peter. “You don’t have any friends here?”

Somber, Peter says to her, “I’m not the same person you used to know.” Before she can quiz him anymore, he turns to Stiles. “Mariah’s a banshee. We went to college together.” 

_Ohhh_. “So that’s how you knew so much about Lydia!” Stiles says, jumping to his feet. This is perfect. 

“Is Lydia another banshee?” asks Mariah. 

“Yeah, you totally have to meet her,” Stiles says, already pulling out his phone. But then he pauses and glances up at her. “You’re not evil, are you? Peter, is she evil?” If she’s friends with Peter, she’s probably at least a little evil. 

“Pfft,” she says. “I let Peter be evil for me.” She side-eyes Peter. “Or at least I used to. You really need to fill me in on what’s going on.”

“It’d be nice to know what’s kept you so busy, too,” Peter tells her, an edge to his voice. “It’s been years since you visited.”

She sighs. “There’s an aos sí war in Ireland, and I owed someone a debt.”

“Hmm.” Peter nods, then pushes off the bar and walks into the kitchen, saying, “I’ll make dinner. We can trade stories.”

Uncomfortable, Stiles swipes his keys off the coffee table and begins to slink out of the apartment, but Peter says Stiles’s name from behind the open window between the bar and the kitchen sink, making Stiles jump. “That includes you, if you have time,” Peter says, amused.

Stiles blinks and glances between Peter and Mariah, who watches him with interest. What is happening? “Okay,” he says, half out of curiosity.

Peter leaves most of the story-telling to Stiles, adding in his own acerbic comments every once in a while, and dinner passes surprisingly quickly. Mariah tells her own tales, most of which are otherworldly adventures with fairies and spirits, and a few of which are about her ridiculous merman boyfriend. It almost makes Stiles grateful they only had an alpha pack to deal with. As time passes, he can see why she and Peter are friends. She’s laid-back with a spine of steel, and she shares Peter’s sense of humor. Stiles likes her, and once she ensures that Peter’s not perving on him because of his age (apparently Peter used to go for older men, who knew?) she and Stiles hit it off pretty well.

“You know a lot about being a banshee,” Stiles asks her while he shuffles his sautéed brussels sprouts around the plate. (Props to Peter. They’re actually pretty good. Stiles had never thought that was possible). “Do you think you could help Lydia out?” He’d told the whole story about Peter’s possession of Lydia, much to Mariah’s displeasure and Peter’s chagrin, and Mariah had seemed to sympathize with Lydia fairly well. 

“I’ll probably be here for a few weeks,” Mariah says. “If she can find the time, of course.”

“Awesome,” Stiles says, already texting Lydia. Finally. 

 

o—o—o

 

On Stiles’s first Sunday after finals, Peter texts him, _Dinner tonight?_

While this is a pleasant new development that makes Stiles feel a little giddy, Stiles is currently enjoying his life wrapped up in a couple burrito blankets with his laptop for company. _nah_ , he texts back. _i wanna stay in tonight. some other time tho? im free all week except tues._

To which Peter replies, _I have a reservation._

That’s a little annoying. _shoulda asked me first then_

Peter’s next response takes five minutes to come in, and Stiles wonders if this is going to be the start of their first fight. Peter has this annoying habit of trying to control Stiles’s life, but the thing is —it’s Stiles’s life, not Peter’s, and Peter can go fuck himself. 

Thankfully, Peter seems to get it. _How’s Thursday?_

_good_ , Stiles texts back. _ur free to join me and netflix tonight tho. we gotta catch u up on all the pop culture u missed_

Peter shows up an hour later, and they end up watching Stiles’s old DVD copy of _Inception_. Peter loves Eames. This does not surprise Stiles at all. Stiles kind of loves him, too, and they both agree that Eames and Arthur were totally into each other.

 

o—o—o

 

Mariah teaches Lydia how to control her powers, all the teenagers miraculously manage to pass their finals (miraculously meaning _nobody slept ever_ ), Stiles’s dad returns home alive and whole, and winter break passes without much incident. Peter and Stiles argue over petty things and find a random-ass nogitsune spirit stuck as a fly in a glass jar under the Nemeton. Peter snatches it out of the air when it tries to fly away and crushes it between his fingertips, and Stiles lets the ensuing burst of energy dissipate. The energy feels too dirty to channel into the Nemeton. 

It seems like he and Peter are going through that honeymoon phase that most new couples go through (and isn’t it weird for Stiles to think of them as a couple? It sounds so tame), but there’s still something missing from their relationship. They feel… _unsettled_ , Stiles thinks. _Unfinished._

Stiles intends to spend his birthday meditating with the Nemeton. It’s like his personal holy day, Deaton explains. It has power, and if this is what Stiles must do to ensure he doesn’t need to sacrifice anyone else to the Nemeton, then it’s an easy sacrifice to make. 

Bearing Stiles’s dinner, Peter steps through the wooden gate. There’s a fence now circling the clearing of the Nemeton. Stiles had built it himself at Shin’s suggestion before she and her brother had left. She’d told him to go back to his roots (ha, roots) since “blood is power”, and he’d researched Proto-Slavic culture as much as he could. It was difficult since the culture had been passed down orally, but between Peter and Deaton’s books and the internet, Stiles had been able to scrounge up a few scraps of knowledge. The old Slavic people had worshipped in shrine-like groves, “gajes”, and Stiles was trying to recreate one with the Nemeton. It’s only one single tree, not a whole grove of them, but Stiles’s efforts seem to be doing some good anyway. The tree’s pull on him feels more like an inborn part of him and less like a foreign entity trying to make him ‘feed’ it — so basically he no longer feels like Seymour from _Little Shop of Horrors_ , which is great.

Stiles can feel Peter nearby when he meditates. Peter’s earth and ash, a gnarled shadow at Stiles’s side. His edges twist around Stiles like a cocoon. “The Nemeton likes you,” Stiles says, opening his eyes. 

Peter hands him a subway sandwich and a tupperware container with cake in it. Stiles sets them down with a small smile next to the growing sapling sprouting out of the Nemeton's stump.

“I’m not surprised,” Peter says, threading his fingers through Stiles’s hair. “I brought it you, didn’t I?”

Stiles frowns up at him, pushing his head into Peter’s fingers. “I found it myself,” he says cautiously. “Or it found me, I guess.”

“But I introduced you to magic,” Peter says like he’s testing him.

Stiles inhales deeply, tilting his head up. “Did you know this would happen?” 

“I suspected,” Peter says. He nods his head slightly. “But I didn’t know.”

“Oh.” This doesn’t surprise Stiles. 

Peter’s fingers tighten in his hair. “I didn’t know it would take such a toll on you, though. I didn’t count on it having a mind of its own.”

“Are you gonna say you’re sorry?” Stiles looks up from under his eyelashes, sardonic.

Peter smirks his signature smirk. “No,” he says. 

“Good,” Stiles says. He likes where he is now. His only regret is Danny. Everything else was… necessary. He needed it to grow and survive. Now he gets to live. 

Still, there’s something Peter’s holding back from him. “What was the favor you wanted?”

Peter’s hand slips down to the nape of Stiles’s neck. “Stiles,” he sighs. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to you,” Stiles says, taking Peter’s hand and clasping it between his. “Tell me.”

Peter’s fingers tighten around Stiles’s, and he finally tells Stiles what he wants.

 

o—o—o

 

Gerard stares at the TV. An old _Tom & Jerry _cartoon plays on it for what must be the twentieth time in the last month. This is Hell. 

He hasn’t seen anyone since Christmas. They must be so happy, frolicking with the wolves that’ll eat them as soon as their backs are turned, and here Gerard languishes, the Argent legacy turning into a sad joke all the while. If only he could get Scott to visit one more time….

The lights flicker and the tv screen switches to static. Gerard sits up, glancing around the room. It seems empty, but with his blurry vision and hearing impaired by his infected blood, he doesn’t trust what he sees. He presses the “call nurse” button, and the lights go out, bathing the room in darkness. Curtains cover the window, hiding the moon. 

Silence rings in his ears, and he stays perfectly still, waiting. 

The front door creaks open. The hallway lights are off, too. He can’t see a damn thing. 

He scrambles for his gun, fingers fumbling under the seat of his chair. He brushes metal, but then someone rolls his chair forward, grinding his arm against the wheels. Someone shoves a cloth in his mouth right as he opens his mouth to yell.

Red eyes gleam in front of him, and the silhouette of their owner crouches down, rumbling, “It’s been a long time, Gerard.”  

A second werewolf tugs Gerard’s arms behind his back and handcuffs his wrists together too tightly. He can’t do anything but glower and pray the nurse arrives in time to distract them. 

The silhouette stands up and closes its clawed hand over the back of Gerard’s neck, claws pricking the skin of his spine. Gerard struggles now, and human hands close around his head from behind, finger pads light on his temples. 

“Now,” orders a familiar male voice from behind, and Gerard _remembers_ that voice. It’s aged slightly, but he remembers —he remembers it shouting and whimpering. It doesn't belong to a werewolf, he remembers—

The alpha’s claws plunge into the spaces between his vertebrae, and Gerard’s mind and world spin away from him. Flames lick at his skin, inescapable pain he can’t compartmentalize. The fire burns through his muscles and bones, and he can feel his eyes _melting_ —

It might be an extension of the flames, but he thinks he can feel the alpha's claws peel out of his skin, and he almost gasps in relief because at least planted memories are temporary, but the inferno doesn’t stop. His body’s ablaze, and Gerard bites into the cloth as hard as he can, throat raw.

It has to stop.

Everything eventually must stop. 

“Asshole,” he thinks he hears someone say, and then a door closes, the click of the lock barely heard through the crackle of fire around him.

His hands are free. He doesn’t know when they were uncuffed, but they’re free now. 

The flames rise further around and inside him, and he yanks the cloth out of his mouth. He tries to scream, vocal cords straining, but no sound except the harsh exhale of his breath comes out.

_This_ is Hell. 

 

o—o—o

 

Jim comes home after an exhausting day of work. Gerard Argent’s lost his mind, which wasn’t very unexpected, but it’s a case of his because of the suspicious cuff marks around his wrists. He has questions for Stiles.

But when he opens his front door, he finds a much more immediate concern waiting. Peter Hale sits on the couch watching that _Daredevil_ show Stiles keeps raving about, which in and of itself is concerning because _this is Jim’s house_. But what really makes Jim stop in his tracks is Stiles sprawling against Peter, his head lolling back against Peter’s arm, his eyes closed and body still.  

Jim watches for at least a full minute while Peter pointedly stares at the TV screen, and Stiles remains still. Jim hasn’t seen Stiles sleep this soundly in a long time.

He looks at Peter. Peter looks at him.

Stiles mumbles something incoherent and slumps further into Peter’s space. Peter’s lips twitch.

Jim sighs and closes his eyes. At least Stiles is finally legal. “I’m not dealing with this right now,” he says, waving a hand at them. He walks into the kitchen and pulls out his phone. Melissa will know what to do.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for torture: Stiles and Peter magic Gerard into feeling like he's on fire forever. If you don't want to read this, just skip the section that's from Gerard's point of view.  
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**Author's Note:**

> **Please leave a comment on your way out :)**
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> Since this is my "test book", I don't mind if you add this to goodreads.
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> Also, fuck Gerard.


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